


The Long Death of Hannibal Lecter

by costumesofhannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Badass Will Graham, Betaed, But encephalitis might be better?, Coercion, Emotional Manipulation, FBI adventures, Hannibal is Hannibal, Jack is an asshole, M/M, Minor Characters from Red Dragon, No Encephalitis At Least, No Major Character Death, Original Character(s), POV Multiple, Possessive Hannibal, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 93,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9278297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/costumesofhannibal/pseuds/costumesofhannibal
Summary: AU Vampire/Slow BurnAsked to join Jack Crawford’s elite paranormal strike force, Will Graham finds himself in the midst of an ancient war he’s only beginning to understand. Unsure even of what side Jack has him fighting for, he looks for someone he can trust, and ends up befriending Hannibal Lecter.Hannibal never thought of creating a childer, and stayed well clear of politics, but when he meets Will Graham he starts wonder. How far will he go to gain power to protect his new found family?Abigail Hobbs didn't think she'd survive her father. Now that she has, she finds the mysterious Dr. Lecter has taken an interest in her. But what does he want?Meanwhile Freddie Lounds is getting her teeth in a story that just might bite back.Tldr: Think Hannibal meets the X-Files with touch of the A-Team.Edit: Last chapter updated for a Christmas special staring Hannibal and his vampire colleagues at the annual Lecter Holiday party. Anthony Dimmond makes an appearance.





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is our first work, we wrote the first few chapters back in 2013 during season 1, it got shelved, and we've decided to dust it off and finish it. Sorry if I keep changing tags, I'm trying to figure out how this whole fanfic thing works. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! and comments welcome! (and encouraged) :D

**New Orleans – Gentilly, Near the Docks**

Detective, no former Detective Will Graham walked up the steps to his cottage. It was a small affair, battered by decades of storms, with peeling paint and uneven front steps. Not much, but it was his, at least for now. Oh, there were nicer parts of the Gentilly neighborhood, but Will always wanted to live near to the water.

As he entered, his dogs nestled around him, barking their greetings. “Hey there Winston. Wally get down. Buster…” Putting his green jacket down on the counter top, he continued to murmur to his dogs as he refilled their food and water dishes. Only after, he turned to the fridge. _Empty. Again,_ he sighed. He had forgotten to go to the store. Closing the refrigerator door, he instead opened a cabinet, and took out a can of off-brand Spaghetti-o’s. After glancing wearily at the stovetop, he shrugged, grabbed a spoon and a tin opener, and sat down at his tiny kitchen table to eat it cold.

 _Why couldn’t I have just learned to shut up?_ He should have taken his father’s advice, kept his head low, learned to play the game. Over the years, he’d certainly seen enough to understand how the New Orleans Police Department, the world, how it all really worked. It wasn’t the first time New Orlean’s finest whitewashed a crime scene report. It certainly wouldn’t be the last. _Why protest now? Of all things, why the Marlowe case?_

It would be different if he had a reasonable explanation for what he’d seen in that bloodstained living room, but he didn’t. _One killer, three places,_ he thought, his minds eye retreading now common ground. _All within a single heartbeat, or close enough to it._ _The evidence is clear, common sense be damned._ For once, Will couldn’t even fault the Commander’s decision to junk the report. _But none of it matters,_ he thought, _Administrative leave, pending review. Polite fiction._ He was out, and he knew it.

There was no sense in worrying about it. What’s done is done. He’d head down to the docks tomorrow, look for a job. He’d worked there before, as a part time mechanic. _Maybe they’ll even take me on full time,_ he thought morosely. When he was younger he had always wanted to escape the boatyards, and a scholarship to George Washington University seemed like his ticket out of a life of grease and mud. Oh how he and his father had fought. His father always told him he should stick to boatyards, fixing motors. Nothing good would ever come of leaving, getting above his station. _And now here I am,_ Will mused dolefully, _right back where I started._ He could almost see his father laughing at him. Standing, he tossed the spoon in the sink, threw out the empty tin, and headed into the bedroom.

It was a small, dingy room, complete with a bottle of whiskey and a rocks glass on the bedside table. Will slumped down on the side of the bed and exhaled. _No way I’m going to sleep tonight. Maybe some fresh air will do some good._

*******

Will realized that, without thinking, he’d walked down to the docks. Despite his agitation, the water was soothing. He walked along the road parallel to the docks, absent-mindedly noting one of the dockyard gates hanging open forlornly from one hinge.

Stopping, Will turned his full attention to Lake Pontchartrain. Water was uncomplicated, so unlike the messy difficulties of day to day life. There was something otherworldly and intimate, even inviting, about the dark waters, shimmering in the light of the moon, clear and perfect. Staring out over the lake, just flickering at the corners of his consciousness, he could feel shapes reaching out to him, beckoning.

He closed his eyes, listening to the meditative sound of the waves crashing against the pier, _Stick to fixing boats. It’ll be simpler,_ he told himself. Suddenly, with a start, Will realized almost an hour had passed, and the night had taken on a sharp chill unusual even for early February in New Orleans.

He climbed the steps back up to street level, and turned down the alley towards home. _At least one thing good came from today,_ Will thought cynically, noting the two disheveled figures clustered around a burning barrel, _no more enforcing pointless vagrancy laws._ Walking into the small circle of light, Will nodded to the two men. They eyed him warily.

A few steps later, hearing a noise, he turned around to see a shrouded figure standing at the mouth of the alley. “Detective Graham?” A hoarse voice called out.

Will chuckled grimly, starting to say “Not anymore—“ but stepped back with a start as the man _moved_ , one instant a dozen paces away, the next nearly within arms reach. Without thinking, Will stepped to the side. The attacker careened forward, past Will’s chest, off-balance. Will followed through with a wordless cry, driving the assailant head-first into a brick wall. There was a wet thud. Will dove at him. Grabbing the attacker’s head, he slammed it into the wall, again, and again, and again.

The man smashed his head back into Will’s face with a sickening crunch. Will stumbled back. Snarling, the man turned, lunging at Will. Again, Will twisted aside. As the man staggered past him once more, Will followed. He grabbed the back of the man’s coat and propelled him head-first into the burning barrel. The barrel collapsed in a shower of sparks and charred newspaper.

With a high-pitched wail, the man leaped out of the fire, ineffectually pawing at his sizzling clothing. Ignoring Will, he dashed for the mouth of the alley—and the water beyond. Will pursued, but the man was too fast. As Will watched, the man leapt down the stairs into the water, landing with sharp crack. _Broken ankle,_ a distant part of Will thought. Yet, the man didn’t seem to notice as he flung himself into the moonlit waves.

Finding himself at the top of the stairs, Will’s hand dove futilely inside his jacket, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

He staggered, suddenly cold, alone and confused. _What…Who was that?_ Looking out over the water illuminated by the dockyard’s bright spotlight, he could no longer see the man, now swallowed whole by the lake. Shaking his head, as if shaking off a deep sleep, he slowly walked back to the alley.

In the flickering light of the dying fire, he saw with rising horror a bloody knife, lying at the base of the wall. _The man must have dropped it._ Feeling suddenly faint, Will staggered, leaning on the wall for support. Looking down again, he saw an ear…jaggedly bitten off? Slowly as if in a dream, Will raised an arm to the side of his head. _I don’t think it’s mine? No, both still here._

Will’s gaze flitted to his arm. Squinting in the dying light, the trash can fire having fared poorly in the chaos, he cringed. His left arm was cut to the bone in a long, jagged wound, running along the outside of his arm from wrist to elbow. Slowly sinking to the ground, he noticed for the first time a dull, throbbing pain coming from his ruined nose and a wet sticky sensation making its way down his face and mouth.

 _I should call it in,_ he thought dully, pawing at his shoulder for his radio before realizing he no longer carried one. As the faintness washed over him, he slowly pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.

“911 emergency.”

“Officer down, Gentilly docks.” Will mumbled struggled to remain coherent. A part of him wanted to cackle madly with glee. With the adrenaline starting to crash, the smallest damned things seemed funny. _Officer down. Someone’s going to regret they put me on leave, instead of firing me outright._  
A part of Will was aware of the further, now suddenly excited questions from the operator, but he no longer had the strength to respond.

He felt himself drift away, away from the alley, away from the insistent operator, toward the dark water, illuminated by the light of the bright spotlight from the dockyard, glittering like the full moon.

_Is that…singing?_

 


	2. Chapter Two

_“Look I shouldn’t have to remind you about this, but in light of Graham’s last and final flight of fancy, if your reports read like a Weekly World News article, you are doing something wrong…”_

_—Internal Email, NOPD 2nd District_

 

**New Orleans — University Hospital—Some Time Later**

Will awoke, bleary eyed and confused. He lay in what appeared to be a hospital bed, his left arm and shoulder heavily bandaged. A tall Asian woman sat by the door reading a newspaper. She had long, straight black hair, and was wearing a dark maroon leather jacket and blue jeans. More incongruously, she had a gun on her hip.

Hearing him stir, she looked up, and seeing he was awake, let out a low whistle. “ _Looking good._ How was your nap?”

From the light streaming into the room’s only window, Will guessed that it was mid-afternoon. “Where…who are you? Why do you have a gun?” Terror ran through Will. He replayed the his last memories in his head and found they were a blur of images. _Fire, a knife, an ear…_

“You’re at University Hospital.” She continued. “You just got out of surgery a couple hours ago. You _really_ went through the works. Stitches in the arm, fractured ribs, broken nose…minor concussion. Oh, and you’re running a low fever. The doctors think the wound might be infected.”

“Uh…” He was having trouble finding words, his head throbbed, and he felt disoriented.

“Well, you’ve got a few minutes before your flight.”

“Flight?”

She laughed. “Trust me, you’ll want to get out of town.” She tossed him the newspaper.

He picked it up. The headline blared: _Corruption Scandal—FBI Sweeps NOPD_

The immediate flood of terror turned to confusion. Who were these people? Did they think he was involved?

She tossed him a bag of pill bottles. “Have your meds. You’re going to need them.”

“Where are we going? How long? What about my dogs?” He let out a barrage of questions.

“Thought you might ask that. We sent someone to your place. I’d go myself, but…” She looked him up and down, “…you’re in no condition to be left alone.”

“Who are you? Why do you have a gun?” Questions were racing though his head, faster than he could speak.

“Trust me, it’s for your own protection, you’ll be coming with the us now.” She smiled at him, and flashed him an identification badge. _FBI._ “By the way, I’m Agent Katz, but you can call me Beverly.”

***

Beverly quickly hustled Will out of the hospital, and into a grey sedan. As soon as they pulled out of the parking lot, she started making phone calls. Will leaned back in his seat, staring absently out the window, half listening to Beverly speak into her bluetooth headset. He quickly discerned that most of his chain of command had been arrested, even the Commander.

It left Will with profoundly mixed feelings. On an intellectual level, he knew that many of his colleagues were an absolute disgrace to the force. Yet, part of him had always hoped, that someday, somehow, the NOPD would cure it’s dishonor. He knew by any rational measure, especially after Katrina, such hope was forlorn. But he also knew the day he gave up hope was the day he’d give up his badge. Now, the choice was made for him. For whatever reason, the same people who were taking away so many of his colleagues had singled him out. But why?

Part of him wanted to simply turn and insist he be taken in with his colleagues. After all, he was complicit in their actions, having watched in silence. Instead he sat back and listened to Beverly’s conversation. She seemed very concerned that they leave by 5PM. “Rankin is running down the two witnesses…No, I haven’t asked him yet…Yes, change of plans, Willingham and Rankin are to staying to pack. They know protocol…” This conversation continued on. Did the FBI think he was an important witness? Why else would they take him into protective custody?

To Will, it felt like time had slowed down, as if he was watching his own ship capsize in slow motion. He was being pushed along by a current and wind not of his choosing, with no way to change course. All he could hope was that he could tack at the right moment, and not be swept over.

Will suddenly noticed with alarm, that they’d driven past the turnoff to Louis Armstrong, New Orleans’ commercial airport. “I thought we were going to the airport…” he said slowly, his mouth suddenly turning dry.

“Hold on a minute,” Beverly said into the headset. “Now, you really don’t miss a beat.” She said, her eyes glancing up to the rear view mirror. “We’re going to a nice, private airfield. Armstrong is too _public_ for our tastes.” She returned to her call.

Minutes later, they pulled onto a small, inconspicuous airstrip. Several people were loading boxes and bags into a small turboprop plane, supervised by a tall, imposing, black man in a dark suit and fedora.

Motioning for Will to stay in the car, she walked across the tarmac to the man. _Talking about me, no doubt_ , Will mused, idly watching the activity around him.

A few minutes later, Beverly came back to shepherd Will onto the plane. Several people were already fast asleep in their seats. Some were wearing rather bulky jackets. Will’s gaze was briefly drawn to one man’s lime green argyle socks. Gently turning him away, Beverly helped guide him to his seat and muttered, “You’ll meet the rest of the team soon enough. For now let them rest. They’ve had a long night.” She buckled him into one of a pair of facing seats, but instead of taking the seat across from him, she made her way to join the rest of the team in back of the plane. Turning to forward, Will was surprised to see the imposing man settling down and remove a large manila folder from his briefcase. Leaving the man to his paperwork, Will turned to the window.

As the plane took off, a litany of regrets flashed across his mind. _I never did get a chance to say goodbye to Lamont at the bait shop. Or thank Gilbert for watching my dogs…Will my neighbors notice my disappearance?_ Part of him hoped they would. Part of him knew they wouldn’t. He would become just another of the faceless thousands that came through the Crescent City every year.

He looked out the window, and watched as tiny cars zipped between the small buildings, reminding him of those model towns sometimes found in museums. Then it was all gone. Vanished beneath the clouds.

Will finally realized someone was talking to him. Apparently, the man was finished with his paperwork.

“Sorry, what was that?” Will mumbled, turning back toward the man.

“Detective?” The man repeated, his voice deep and authoritative.

Will nodded.

“Special Agent Jack Crawford, of the FBI. You’d be Detective William Graham?”

“Will. No one calls me William. And former Detective.” Will adverted his eyes. He had never liked meeting people, and with all that had happened, he was overwhelmed. He looked around the interior of the aircraft. It looked like a modified cargo plane, not exactly the first image to come to mind for an FBI team’s private transport.

“As I’m sure as Agent Katz has informed you, you’re here for your own protection.”

“Protection?” Will said skeptically. “Why the hurry? I couldn’t have been in the hospital for more than 12 hours.”

Agent Crawford shrugged. “They will be looking for a scapegoat. With all that has occurred, you seem a natural candidate.”

Will looked at him skeptically. He’d already been fired. What more could they do?

Crawford sighed. “We both know the timing of your suspension was purely coincidental. Few others will see it that way.”

“But why me?”

“Marlowe.”

Will looked at Crawford, confused by the non-sequitur.

Crawford spoke again. “We read your report. The original report. The reason you were suspended, the reason you were attacked.”

Realization dawned on Will. “You think someone on the force had me stabbed?” Sure, he had clearly annoyed the Police Commander, but surely that didn’t warrant someone stabbing him!

Crawford continued, “I wanted to congratulate you. The doctors said it was close. You sustained some bad injuries, and lost a lot of blood. The ambulance barely got there in time. I’m sure that was some unorthodox thinking that saved you.”

“I was just lucky.” Will turned away. He didn’t know what had come over him back there. He didn’t want to know.

“Hrm?”

“It was nothing.” His head was pounding. He didn’t want to think about the fight. Turning back, he glanced at the papers in Crawford’s lap. With a start, he realized that the man had the _original_ version of Will’s Marlowe report. The one his partner threw in the trashcan before finishing the first page. _From the grease stains it looked like it might even be the same copy._ “Why is the FBI interested in the Marlowe case?”

“For some time one of our sister offices has tracked both this killer and the corruption in the NOPD. We were just called in to assist with arrests.” Crawford had a small smile. “Your report was not the first report on this killer to feature ‘irregularities’.”

Will tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Jack gave another cryptic smile. “I read your report, but I imagine even that glossed over certain irregularities.” The man leaned forward. “Tell me, what really happened.”

Will closed his eyes, letting the memory of the crime scene wash over him. He was standing outside a two story house in the quiet neighborhood of Carrolton. White sideboards, blue shutters, a neatly landscaped yard, the image of domestic happiness. The effect was ruined by the red door, hanging off its hinges.

"Mrs. Marlowe was in the kitchen when the killer burst through the door." Will said, seeing a crash of splintering wood. "He shot Mrs. Marlowe through the spine. The bullet did not kill her. He wanted her alive." Will paused, blinking back the image of splattering blood and the wide, fearful eyes of Mrs. Marlowe as she fell to the ground.

Jack nodded, and leaned forward. Will saw he was taking notes in the margin of the report.

"He was interrupted before he could do…whatever he wanted to do.” Will saw a dumpy, balding man in his late 50's running down the stairs. "But, before her husband Thomas can cry for help, the killer shoots him. A single gunshot to the temple. The killer has police training, or more likely military.”

Jack continued nodding. “Go on.”

“And this is the part I don’t fully understand. The evidence suggests that the same person killed Mrs. Marlowe, killed her husband, and caught him before he hit the ground. However as my superiors were quick to remind me, no human being can move that fast.”

Jack nodded. “That would suggest multiple assailants.”

Will leaned in, staring at Jack intently. He suddenly felt more awake, more aware than he’d been since he first entered in the Marlowe house. “Every other piece of evidence points to a single assailant. Even the crime itself was personal, intimate.” Suddenly Will was back in the Marlowe house, overwhelmed by the memory of blood—blood on the ceilings, blood on the walls, blood on the floor, blood all over the tasteful furniture and decorations. It was like a madman had frescoed the walls and then thought, since there was plenty to spare, _Why stop there?_

He blinked, and collapsed back in his chair, exhausted.

Crawford leaned back, thinking. After a moment he said, “Since you’re out of a job, ever think of working for the FBI?”

Will let out a dry laugh. “I applied before. Got bounced. Apparently ‘I lacked the deportment expected in a field agent.’”

“Minor detail. I’m sure we can work something out.” Agent Crawford said dismissively.

Will just looked at him. _Who’s he kidding?_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! See you next Thursday! Feedback welcome!


	3. Chapter Three

_“…And in a surprising turn of events, earlier today members of the FBI invited a hand-picked selection of NOPD officers to a ‘special briefing’. However, after everyone arrived, the FBI locked the doors and placed them all present were under arrest. Among those arrested…”_

_— Excerpt from the New Orleans Evening News_

 

**Somewhere Outside Baltimore — Crawford's Office — A Couple Days Later**

As Jack entered his office, part of him couldn’t help but miss Quantico. When he ran the prestigious Behavioral Science Unit, he’d enjoyed a high profile position, with a budget and team to match. Now he worked for a group most had never heard of, in a discreet building on the outskirts of Baltimore, and with a skeleton team. A third of his budget was black, and much of the rest came from even more dubious sources.

Of course small unit or not, the mandate was infinitely more important. He looked down at his desk, and sighed as he saw the pile of newspaper clippings, letters, and memos overflowing his inbox. _I wish we could do more of this by email,_ he thought, sitting down. _And I bet the NSA does too._

There was a knock at the door. A short man with paper-white hair entered. As was often the case, Jack had to suppress a small chuckle. Dr. Donald McCusker looked every bit the distinguished old professor, down to the corduroy elbow patches on his tweed jacket. Yet, his very dignified appearance was completely at odds with his bright red striped bow tie and infectious grin.

“How was New Orleans? Try some beignets?” The man joked as he plopped down in a chair opposite Jack’s desk.

Jack couldn’t help but notice, that despite Donald’s best efforts (and the man combed his hair religiously), a few strands of hair had escaped his neat part.

“Donald, you know I didn’t have time. Where’s Dr. Bloom?” Jack placed down his pen, giving Donald his full attention. The dignified man might have been in his mid-80’s, but he didn’t look a day over 70, and still took pride in running younger recruits into the ground. He was an institution in the office, and while he maintained a schedule nearly as rigorous as Jack’s, he thought himself semi-retired.

“Up at Harvard, meeting with Heimlich. He has some thoughts about this taxidermist.” Donald responded, absentmindedly picking up one of Jack’s many black pens.

Jack nodded. _Without a breakthrough, we’re stuck. Maybe it will be Heimlich._ He paused briefly, before asking, “I wanted to take your mind on Graham.”

Donald peered at him skeptically over his thin wire-rimmed glasses. “That detective you brought back?”

“Yes.”

Donald furled his brow, leaned back in his chair contemplatively, “I saw his report on the Marlowe case. Very impressive work. But, I don’t really have a view, not yet at least. I haven’t talked to the man. Do you want me to start the psych eval?”

“No need. He applied to the FBI years ago. I requested a copy of his file, we should have it soon enough.” _Damned red tape. Everything takes far longer than it should._ _And try as I might stamp it out, it always comes back._

Donald nodded. “Well, I’ll have a talk with him after I finish reviewing the New Orleans footage.”

“I think he could be a valuable addition.” Although it pained Jack to admit it, he doubted he would be able to pull that much information out of the Marlowe scene, and that was _after_ over 10 years at the FBI.

“Perhaps, perhaps. We should remain cautious. We don’t want a repeat of San Diego.”

Jack grimaced. _The only good thing about that fiasco is that it happened to a Navy team, not an FBI one. And cautious, dependable Donald is right again._ “Of course,” he responded. “And before bringing him on, we need to make sure this,” Jack momentarily held up a printed copy of Will’s original report, “isn’t a fluke.”

Donald nodded. “You have something in mind?”

“The taxidermist is as good as any.”

 

**Somewhere Outside Baltimore — A Week Later**

_I wonder how much longer they’ll leave me here,_ Will idly thought. _Still, it is a lot nicer than the hospital room. Or a jail cell. If you’d asked me two weeks ago where I thought I’d be, I’d never have guessed this._

Will lay, awkwardly propped up in bed, in the center of a small studio apartment. He didn’t really know where they were, and there were few hints from the apartment. But, Will found the room unusually welcoming for a government building. It seemed it was decorated by an actual person, perhaps even someone who anticipated staying in the room, rather than the usual brutalist accountant. Decorated in cheery pastels, it lacked the usual oppressive overhead fluorescents, and was lit with a handful of brightly shaded lamps. Someone had even found the warm, old style incandescent bulbs instead of the new florescent things. Those always gave Will a headache. It was well furnished, with a chest of drawers, dresser, desk, mirror and two bookshelves. There was even a rather nice sitting area optimistically suggesting a higher degree of socialization than Will would have been comfortable even before his injury. The only downside was the room’s lack of natural light, having only a single small window set high in one wall. Still, the overall effect was rather like a bed and breakfast.

Will didn’t remember much of the trip from New Orleans. His conversation with Agent Crawford left him exhausted, no doubt due to his injuries, and he slept the rest of the trip. He didn’t even know how long they were in the air, and when they landed he’d barely been awake for someone, Agent Katz perhaps, to bundle him into a car.

As for his present location, he didn’t really know. Sure, he knew it was a government compound of some kind. Most likely FBI from what Agent Crawford said on the plane. All he remembered from his arrival was a big parking lot, a couple ivy covered buildings, up against a large hill. Upon arrival, he was bundled into a wheelchair, led through a seemingly endless series of brightly lit hallways, and carefully put to bed.

What followed he remembered all too clearly, when Dr. Alana Bloom walked into the room. Thankfully, his injuries had left him too tired to make of fool of himself when he saw her. When they’d last seen each other, they’d been in graduate school, he working towards his Masters in Forensic Science, and she in her medical program. Dinner, then drinks, and after carefully ascertaining that _they would never see each other again,_ more energetic activities. Still, it was good to see her again. From her worried expression, the concern in her voice, he thought part of her was glad to see him as well.

Since then, events had been less interesting. He’d spent the first couple days on a steady diet of canned soup and antibiotics, so weak he could barely get out of bed. Only over the past day had he felt up to getting up, exploring the apartment, and beginning to sort through the boxes of personal effects which someone had packed and sent up from New Orleans.

At least Agent Katz — _no, Beverly, —_ had dropped by to tell him his dogs were safe, and she was taking care of them, until he could find more permanent housing.

Exhaling and stretching, Will adjusted the floral bedspread and turned back to the tacklebox sitting on the table next to the bed. _Something to do, I suppose, until they figure out what they’re going to do with me,_ he thought, as he retrieved a partially completed lure. Carefully, he began to wind it with thread.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

Will looked up surprised. He wasn’t expecting anyone.

Another knock.

“Come in?” Will asked, tentatively.

The door opened, and two men in white lab coats entered. The first was a middle-aged man with blonde hair, pale complexion and far too many worry lines on his face. The second man was taller, paler, thinner and younger, with a thick patch of dark unruly hair, a very confident smirk and what was either a very short beard or a 10 o’clock shadow.

“Feeling better?” The first man cheerfully asked. “How do you like the Vip suite?”

“Sorry?” Will asked, confused.

The second visitor continued, “This is where we house VIP’s while they heal up. That or we move a futon into one of the old offices. Budget cuts you know.”

“I don’t think we’ve formally met…” Will looked at them, confused. They looked vaguely familiar—maybe he had seen them on the plane? He wasn’t sure; the only people he remembered clearly were Agent Crawford, Beverly, and the man he had dubbed, “Man With The Socks.”

“Jimmy Price, I work here.” The first man said, settling into one of the optimistic chairs.

“Brian Zeller. I _really_ work here, unlike this guy.” Zeller plopped into a second chair.

“We thought we’d drop in on the vampire living in the closet. Seriously, when was the last time you went outside?” They both exchanged glances and laughed.

“You both work here?”

“Yeah, it’s our headquarters. Welcome to the FBI’s Forensic Training Review Board.” Zeller said proudly.

“Home of the worst acronym ever.” Price added. “Seriously, try saying it. It sounds like vomit.”

 _Ftrb…he had a point._ “Why’s a review board leading a bust against the NOPD? Or looking into the Marlowe case?” Now, Will really was confused.

“He’s a smart one!” Price exclaimed. “Nominally our job is to make sure people are properly trained—“

“—But to do that we have to be _really_ good at our jobs.” Zeller added.

“So, they send us the really hard cases, which is how we make sure we stay on our game.” Price pointed out, beaming like a schoolchild.

“Why have I never heard of you?” When he had applied, he had researched all of the units in the FBI that covered forensics and behavioral science. _How could I have missed something this large?_

“We’ve been at this for a while.” Zeller added conspiratorially, “But we don’t take public credit.”

“Why, you ask?” Price preemptively stated, “‘’cause if we said we were the team you send in when the local FBI can’t solve the crime, well, _they’d_ hate us to, and we’d _never_ get any interesting cases.”

“The local police _already_ hate us, well anyone from the FBI. This way, the crime gets solved, the local FBI gets the credit, we get some fun cases, and everyone is happy.” Zeller grinned.

Will supposed it made sense, in a convoluted way. His head hurt, and the Abbot and Costello routine in front of him wasn’t helping.

“Do I need to find something for you to do?!” Will felt his insides jump on hearing Crawford bark at the two lab rats from the doorway. As Crawford strolled inside, they scurried out the door behind him.

“We were just checking on the Vip! Wanted to make sure he was alive and all. It’s not healthy to have him cooped up here. You know I read that 70% of Americans are lacking in Vitamin—“ Crawford closed the door, cutting off Price off mid-sentence.

“I see you’ve met Zeller and Price. They’re in forensics.”

“They sure are…enthusiastic…” Will murmured, still holding the lure in his hand.

Will heard another knock at the door. Crawford reluctantly sighed and opened it. His demeanor quickly changed as the door swung open to show an elderly man wearing a squat military cap with a veteran's logo and a kindly looking white haired woman wearing a pink floral blouse and cargo pants.

"We miss the shindig?" The old man said, looking around the room.

Jack shook his head as he turned to Will, "Will, meet Tom and Suzie Hubble, they help keep the place running." Jack turned back to the couple, "This is Will Graham, he'll be staying with us for a while."

Will tried to keep his focus on his fishing lures. The quick succession of new people drained what little energy he had. He started to tie off the lure.

"You fish?" Tom asked, glancing down at Will’s large plastic tackle box.

"In New Orleans. I don't suppose there is much out here in…" Will looked around the windowless room. "Where are we?"

"Outside Baltimore." Crawford responded vaguely.

"There a few good spots, if you know where to find them." Tom grinned. "Maybe we can go out sometime. You hunt?"

Will shook his head. “Not anymore.”

"Too bad. They're a lot of deer this season just waiting to commit suicide."

Before Will could respond, to Tom’s maniac grin, Suzie patted Tom on the arm. "Don't scare the poor boy. He's already had quite a shock."

"Alright…I’ll give ‘im a break this time." Tom turned to Jack, "Good job by the way, down in New Orleans."

"I'll brief the rest of the team later." Jack answered.

Will frowned. "What team?" He assumed it was the rest of the people from the plane.

"Later." Jack responded, as he started opening a thick folder. The couple took that as their sign to leave, and as they left, they quietly closing the door behind them. Once they were gone, Crawford spoke. “I wanted to come by and congratulate you,”

Will looked up from his lure, confused. “For what?"

“You’re no longer on leave, you’re on temporary detached duty to the FBI. Special Investigator Graham, you’ll be getting your gun and badge back.”

Will furled his eyebrows, “I thought they were going to fire me.”

“They didn't have time to finish the paperwork. Anyway, I wanted to give this to you earlier, but your doctor informed me in no uncertain terms that if I did, I would be needing her care.” Crawford tossed a thick file on to the bed. The jostle caused Will to drop the lure. Resigned, he packed them up and picked up the file.

“What’s it about?” Will asked, opening the file.

“Several girls found dead. Bodies taxidermied and posed.”

 _A test then.,_ Will thought. Suddenly very self-conscious, Will began to flip through the file, seeking to get a general sense of the case. _Broad search, then deep,_ he thought. _By the book. I need to show him what he expects to see._

Will paused at a set of photographs, carefully clipped together. _The victims,_ Will thought, spreading the photos out on the bed. Each of the girls was carefully, indeed elaborately, posed in a dark parody of domestic harmony. One slept peacefully, tucked neatly in bed. Another in sweat pants sat curled in a chair, reading a book. Still another sat at a vanity, wearing a prom dress, lipstick in hand. Some commonalities immediately stood out. All the girls had dark hair, blue eyes, roughly the same height and weight. Pretty in a plain sort of way, _Very Mall of America,_ Will thought.

Jack’s voice brought Will back to attention. “Read the file. I’ll be back in an hour. We’ll talk then.”

 

**Baltimore, MA — Dr. Hannibal Lecter's Living Room**

As the quiet, soothing strains of Chopin drifted through the living room. Hannibal Lecter placed an empty wineglass on a wooden table and methodically poured himself a glass from the decanter. He’d lived in Baltimore for so long, he’d become a fixture, structuring his life to avoid society’s petty politics, so he could focus on his psychiatric practice. Of course, there were always those patients who pushed in that he could not refuse, but by and large, he focused on those whose problems interested him, and those who could pay well.

This arrangement left plenty of time for pursuing other hobbies, such as cooking or composing. But, even he had to admit, he was bored. He felt static, each day the same as the last. He needed a new project, a distraction.

The parlor door opened and closed. Glancing up, he watched Bedelia Du Maurier glide into the room. Dressed in a red charmeuse blouse and brown tweed skirt, she was always just as fashionable as he. Wine glass in hand, she took a seat across from him.

Picking up his wineglass, he absentmindedly swirled the dark ruby liquid and reclined back in one of the dark green chairs. _I do enjoy these conversation,_ he mused. He watched her cautiously sniff her glass.

He raised his wine glass, looking intently through the crystal. Finally he spoke. "I had a lovely conversation with my friend Dr. Bloom.” Shaping and guiding her career, he enjoyed watching Alana grow. She had been a good project. He was quite proud of her success in joining the FTRB, at the time, it had been all he wanted. But now he felt she was capable of so much more. _If only she was less risk averse, she could rise so much further._ Instead she remained on the outskirts of operations.

The woman paused from swirling her glass. "Your…friend?" She gave him a pointed look.

Ignoring the comment, he stated, "A new investigator arrived. Named Will Graham. It seems Mr. Crawford picked up a stray.”

"You say that like it is a good thing.” She took a sip and looked at him pointedly over her glass.

He smiled thinly. “An interesting thing, perhaps. It sounds as if Mr. Graham has a very fascinating mind."

"Even better." The woman said with just the lightest tinge of sarcasm.

Observing that she had yet to touch her drink, he softly chided, “Letting a good vintage go to waste?”

He watched intently as she took a slow, careful sip. He couldn’t tell. It was possible that she just let the red liquid touch her lips. Seemingly ignoring his comment, she continued, “You realize, there are risks involved.”

“I am well aware of the risk. This is not a risk.”

"Perhaps I take a less cavalier attitude towards such matters." She placed the glass down on the small wooden table next to her chair. “What did he do to merit your attention?"

"By all accounts the man perceives the world without filters."

"Such men are extremely dangerous."

"Such men are rare and to be treasured." There was a long pause. Hannibal watched as the woman slowly raised her wine glass yet again to her lips. "You disagree?"

She started to speak slowly, as if carefully choosing her words. “I appreciate that minds such as yours are never content unless faced with new and interesting challenges.” She returned her glass on the table, lips tightening, “Yet…if not carefully moderated such impulses can lead to recklessness."

Ignoring her comment, Hannibal gave a narrow smile, spreading wide enough to reach his eyes. “I shall have to contrive an excuse to personally meet Mr. Graham. I think we shall become good friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! Next week, Will get's a tour of the FBI facility! See you then!


	4. Chapter Four

_“In response, a source close to the Mayor said, ‘It’s an outrage, a disgrace to justice and the basic rights of this country that the FBI would deny these officers of the law bail and hold the trials in another jurisdiction.’” — Wednesday’s edition of the New Orleans Times-Picayune_

 

**FTRB HQ — Later this Week**

“You enjoy those few extra days in the _Big Easy_?” Philip Langton flipped the pool cue behind his back and shot a ball across the green felt covered table.

“I spent it running down drunkards and hobos.” John Rankin glared back, watching as Langton’s ball narrowly missed every ball on the table, before landing neatly in a corner pocket.

“Scratch again.” Rankin smirked. At 36, he always seemed to be the old man on the tactical team, even though Spurgen, Crawford, Thompson and Langton were all technically older.

“You just wish you had my style.” Of course you wouldn’t be able to tell from looking at Langton. _Some days he seems like he’s 19 instead of 39,_ Rankin groused. _And that motherfucker eats a pound of bacon and then runs five miles. Every week I’m getting told ways I’m not allowed to have fun anymore._ Rankin grumbled as Langton continued. “But, come on…you took _some_ time for R &R.”

“If questioning pan handlers is your idea of recreation, next time, _your_ welcome to it.”

“Can’t. You heard the boss. That’s why I got left up here.” Langton rolled his eyes.

Rankin laughed, circling the pool table to set up his shot. “That must have been a good one.”

“Yeah…last Mardi Gras was one for the books. But, I heard the new guy’s former PD. Maybe he has some friends who can do something about that warrant… _if you know what I mean_.”

“Hah, I don’t think so. You’d have better luck beating him up and sending them pictures. I think he’s got more enemies on the force than you do.” Rankin rolled his eyes. _If that was even possible…_

Glancing up at the large clock on the wall, Rankin swore. “Fuck. Speaking of Graham, I need to give him the tour. We’ll have to finish this later.” Lining up one final shot, he grinned as it hit home. Still grinning, he put the cue back in the rack.

“What about the game? You’re just saying that ‘cause you know I’m going to win!” Langton shouted.

“And what are you going to do?” Rankin called back as he started to leave, “Sink the 8 ball again?”

Across the room, from the couch, Alex Brooks shouted, “Have fun!”

Jane Willingham looked up from the X-box controller. “Don’t forget to bring the new meat down here to say hi.” She added.

Rankin shook his head. _Was it just him, or were they getting younger?_

***

Will frowned at the files scattered around the VIP suite’s small desk. There was something more to the case. Well, something beyond the taxidermy. A sort of malevolent tenderness. Very nearly a contradiction in terms, he knew, but it was still there, floating beneath the surface. Nothing like any other case he’d worked on.

He’d not seen it when he first discussed the case with Crawford. Of course Crawford had barely given him an hour. He wasn’t sure what Crawford had thought of his stammering, barely coherent report. The man simply listened intently, nodding at appropriate places, before abruptly thanking Will and leaving with a vague promise to be in touch.

Will could not escape the feeling that there was more to discover, hidden beyond the sterile reports and profiles before him.

His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. _I wonder who that is,_ he thought, _Crawford again? Here to throw me out, or toss me another riddle?_

The knock repeated, impatiently. _Not Crawford then; he would be more insistent than impatient._

A third knock. _Right,_ Will thought, suddenly shaking himself. _I’m supposed to answer._ “Come in?” He said hesitantly.

The door opened. Will quickly appraised the man who entered. _Mid to late thirties, police or military experience from the look of it. Messy brown hair, battered blue jeans, faded green “Army” t-shirt and military style boots. Looks worried and put-upon, although I suppose that may be my doing…_

“Graham?” The man asked, appraising Will in turn.

“Yes…?”

“John Rankin. People call me Jay,” The man extended a hand, giving Will a small forced smile. “Lead of Tac Team One. I’m supposed to give you the tour.”

 _Finally a tour, that was good._ Will sighed in relief. _I finally get to see what’s outside this door._

Will paused as they left the “VIP Room”, taking in his surroundings. Like the small apartment, it lacked the same bland, offensive sameness Will had come to expect from government buildings. The building felt lived in, almost homey. It was the nice little things that jumped out to him. The worn carpet, slight variations in the wall coloration, where new paint was layered over by someone unconcerned with a perfect match. The unexpectedly cheery art on the walls in lieu of the usual plaques.

Finally Rankin coughed. With a start, Will turned to see him standing halfway down the hall, looking at Will impatiently. Will hurried over.

“Right now we’re on the first floor of the Science Building.” Rankin said, as they proceeded down the hall. “Upstairs leads to Crawford’s office and downstairs to the labs. You’ll be spending a lotta time up here, so we’re skipping most of it. You’ve got a head in your room, the other’s are down the hall.” They rounded a corner and continued down another hallway. Will said nothing, just slowly taking in the sights.

Rankin continued, opening a door. “Here’s the science canteen.”

Will poked his head into the small pantry, and surveyed the room. It was far nicer than any staff kitchen he’d ever seen in a government building. Yellow walls, the color of happy daisies brightened the room. Up front was a small stove and microwave, in the back of the room, a small seating area. Fancy folding chairs, the kind found at Bed Bath and Beyond, surrounded a medium sized metal table. In total, the furnishing seemed a bit worn, but clean.

Next to the microwave, clearly waiting for something to heat up, Will recognized the man he’d briefly seen on the plane, who he’d mentally catalogues as The Man With The Socks. _Bright green argyle stands out anywhere, but especially in government service._ In this lighting, the man looked quite young. _Early 20’s?_ Will thought. He had a slim frame and build, even slimmer by the tight cut of his tan khaki pants, and a blue and white checkered shirt. Obscured behind a huge pair of Buddy Holly style glasses, the man looked up from his iPad. “Rankin?” He said acknowledging them, “What brings you to this side of the world?”

“Giving the newbie the tour. Graham, meet Lloyd Bowman.”

Bowman nodded in brief acknowledgement. “You’re the one that caused all the stir in New Orleans. We’ve all been working overtime for you.” The microwave dinged. Bowman tucked his iPad away in a leather messenger… _pouch_? Graham noticed it was made of very nice leather. Bowman opened the microwave and pulled out a bowl of fancy instant noodles. “Gotta get back to work. See you around!”

Taking his attention away from the large calendar on the wall, this month featuring a photo of an eagle swooping down to eat a rabbit, Will nodded in agreement, but Bowman had already left. Leaving Will to examine the collection of cereal, noodle bowls and the coffee pot, Rankin continued speaking. “‘cept for Katz and Crawford, the rest of the egg-heads prefer eating cardboard up here to coming down to the canteen with us.” As he continued on, something about the lack of delivery services in the area, Will absentmindedly started opening and closing cabinets. _Paper cups, paper plates, cutlery…”_ Why is there a gun taped under the sink?”

John looked around the room. Barely missing a beat, he responded. “Looks like someone took the Boy Scout motto a bit too seriously.” He let out a short laugh. “I’ll take care of it later.” He added brusquely. “Let’s continue.”

He hustled Will out of the pantry. They continued down the hall, where they reached two doors. Pointing to the marked door on the right, Rankin continued, “Down here is the emergency exit. Don’t use it. It will set off alarms like you won’t believe.” Turning to other one, he opened it. It led to a stairwell. “Here leads downstairs to the tunnel system. We’re going to the Barracks.” As the started down the stairwell, Rankin added, “You’ll probably want to spend the first few weeks walking with someone, or you’re gonna get lost.”

He was right. Underground was a maze of tunnels. _Expanded piecemeal over time._ Will thought, examining the varying construction techniques. Rankin pointed down one tunnel. “Range is down there, under the parking lot. We’ll come back that way when we’re done.”

They walked on towards the Barracks and through a couple sets of heavy doors. _Must be worried about fires._ Will observed, as they passed through yet another set of doors. Finally Will found himself in a basement lounge.

It reminded him of some of the basement common rooms he had seen in college, just with many more posters. Glancing around, he concluded, _Either someone’s a Resident Evil fan, or they really like the female lead._ A cork board filled with schedules and calendars hung next to a _300_ poster. _A white board with crude cartoon of Jack…so I guess we are in college here…_ He craned his neck, seeing a Dungeon and Dragons the movie poster on the ceiling. _How? Never mind._ At this point nothing could surprise him. The TV was flanked by several video game consoles. A few faded leather couches sat in the center of the room. Past a pool table, and through an open door, Will could see a kitchen.

“Hey, fresh meat! Over here!” Will heard a woman call out. Will turned and saw, sitting on a couch, a stocky woman with short brown hair wearing a black shirt with some kind of horned green smiley face.

Rankin continued. “Folks, This here is Will Graham, Crawford’s latest _acquisition.”_ He turned to Will. “The chatty one over there is Jane Willingham, the decrepit old couch potato is Philip Langton—“

“Fuck you grandpa!” Langton shouted back.

“—And that there is Alex Brooks.”

Jane Willingham appeared to be playing a shooter on an Xbox in split screen mode with Langton, a muscular man in his late 30’s. Tattoos ran up and down his arms. In particular, Will could see a tattoo with a black paw print on his right bicep. It matched the logo on his tight tank top, under which read _Blackwater._ Watching the game and drinking a beer, was Brooks, an athletic woman in her 20’s. Hair pulled back into a tight bun, like Rankin she wore a dark green shirt that read Army.

“I thought he’d be less scrawny.“ Brooks said appraising him.

Will shifted uncomfortably. He could tell they too were sizing him up. Looking away he started inspecting posters near the television set. _Castlevania, Gabriel Knight…_

Thankfully, Rankin seemed to notice his discomfort, “Well this is the lounge. You’re not likely to down come here often, but if you need one of us, someone is usually down here. If for some reason not,” Will looked back, just as he gestured towards an intercom on the wall, “press the button and Suzie will direct you. Got it?”

Will nodded, his eyes focusing on a dartboard constructed from a repurposed Twilight poster.

“More to see. This way.” They turned to leave the way they came in.

“Headshot!” Willingham shouted.

“Motherfucker! Can’t you wait for them to leave!” Langton shouted back.

“What did you expect?” Willingham replied indignantly, while Brooks laughed at the byplay.

Then Will and Rankin returned back to the tunnels from whence they came. After making a few more turns, Rankin pointed down another long tunnel. “That way to the Administration Building…which we only ever use when we have official visitors. So yeah, who cares. But if you ever need to go out to a car, follow the exit signs, and they’ll take you that way.”

Will nodded glumly. _A car. That would imply he had somewhere else to go._

As they started back, Will noticed a fire-extinguisher box along one of the tunnels. Not entirely sure why, he opened it. _What the hell…_ “Are these…explosives? Why are there explosives in there?” He nearly shouted. _So much for no more surprises._

Rankin turned, clearly exasperated. “…Because Tom and Suzie have a strange sense of humor.” _How? What?_ Will thought to himself. _Who are these people?_

Rankin looked at him, clearly aware the answer had not satisfied him. “Look. Tom is convinced that _real soon_ , black UN helicopters are going to descend and implement the New World Order…” Will raised an eyebrow. “You ask him! Maybe you’ll get a better answer than the rest of us.” Rankin tossed up his hands, clearly wanting no part in this discussion. “Are we going to the range or are you going to stand there gaping like a fish?” Rankin started off down the hall, not bothering to wait for a response.

Gingerly Will trotted along after him. Finally he asked, “Isn’t that a bit…dangerous?”

Rankin looked at him oddly. “Surprisingly, we don’t have much in the way of squabbles here. Anyway, see that stairwell over there?” Rankin pointed to a stairwell heading even further down. “Clinic is down there, but I gather Dr. Bloom will give you a personal tour. But yeah, we’re going to the Armory to check in with the quartermaster, Casey Jones. Just do as she says, and don’t piss her off.”

Approaching the range, they reached another large set of heavy doors. At this point, Will was just relieved that the pantry upstairs contained food other than tin cans of survivalist rations. Once inside, Will found himself in a small antechamber. Rankin hit the intercom. “Hey Casey, you there? It’s Jay.”

“Oy, I’m in back.” An audible click could be heard from the heavy door in front of them. Rankin grunted as he opened the door and gestured for Will to follow him inside.

As Will walked through, he could see it was a very thick, very heavy, steel door. Inside he could hear the whirring sounds of a lathe. He saw small room with a metal sliding window on the back wall, opening into some sort of back room.

To his surprise, Rankin didn’t approach the window, but led him around the side down a short corridor that wrapped around the side of the room. Stepping through the side door to into the back, Will stopped in his tracks, overwhelmed. _That’s a lot guns. And unless I’m mistaken, not standard issue even for the FBI._ In fact, he was fairly certain that some of these were flat illegal, even for law enforcement.

His eyes were immediately drawn to a long rack of large shotguns prominently placed near the front of the room. _Those definitely did not come through normal channels. Did they make it themselves? If so, good lathe work…_ He continued to look around, overwhelmed. _Is that a trident on the wall?_ Seeing that Rankin had not stopped, he hurried to catch up.

As they rounded the rack of shotguns, Will couldn’t help but notice an incongruous poster in the back of the room. It was clearly from some anime, and featured an effeminate youth in an over designed white uniform, holding a rose up towards the sparkling heavens.

Before Will could comment, the lathe stopped. He turned around to see a small, very cross woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, removing her safety goggles.

“Who the hell is this?” She snapped at Rankin.

“This is Will Graham. He’s the new addition to the team. Former cop.”

“Why’d you bring him back here?” The woman glared at him.

Rankin looked confused, “You told me—“

“Fuck you. Fine. What do you want?”

“Showing him the range.”

“Fine. Same as usual?”

“Yup.” With the safety goggles still perched on her head, Casey strode across the room to a set of shelves, removed a pistol case and handed it to Rankin. She turned to Will. “What do you want?”

Will tore his eyes away from the large white board, titled _Casey’s Rules of the Armory._ “Err…I’ve always carried a 9mm.”

Casey turned to Rankin with a look of horror and confusion. “Ookay then.” There was a snort of laughter. Will turned. Until then, he hadn’t noticed the bear of a man sitting to the side, tinkering on some box. He was African American and wore a very serious expression. Casey continued. “A 9mm for _Mr_. Graham.” She handed him a hard pistol case. “Ammo’s out front. Now get out of my armory.”

Will and Rankin turned to go. “Oh, New Orleans,” It took Will a moment to realize the quartermaster was addressing him. “Let me make it clear. When you bring that back, it better be clean, and I mean _clean._ ‘Cause I’m gonna check. And if it’s not…” She paused for emphasis. “I’m gonna stick it up your ass. Cleaning supplies up front.” With that she put her goggles back on and returned back to her lathe.

He followed Rankin back out the door, and wondered, _Where am I?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Rankin, Lloyd Bowman and James Willingham were all characters from Red Dragon. I gender flipped Willingham. 
> 
> Next week: We go to Dickinson College and run into a very well dressed psychiatrist. 
> 
> Thank you! Comments welcome!


	5. Chapter Five

_Casey’s Rules of the Armory:_

_1) Your pistol might be a hammer. My pistols are not. Management reserves the right to enforce this rule with blasting caps._

_2) Do not touch the fucking lathe. Rogers, I will know if you do. Use the one in the garage._

_3) I don’t care how much fun ya’ll are having fucking with Graham and Bowman. STOP STEALING MY GRENADES!_

 

**Dickinson College — Carlisle, PA**

Will nervously paced about the small studio apartment. _Finally,_ he thought, _another lead._ Not five minutes before, he’d gotten a call from, _what is her name, right, Suzie._ They’d found another girl in the taxidermy case, and Jack would come by soon to take him to the scene.

Unsure of what to bring, Will ultimately decided to simply bring his notebook, and a small camera. Oh, he knew that the Science Team would meticulously document the scene, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was _something else,_ some factor teasing him, almost daring him to try and find it.

Finally, a knock. Almost before it had stopped, Will was at the door, khaki green jacket in hand. Opening it, he saw Crawford.

“Jack,” he said in greeting. “Are we leaving?”

However, Jack seemed momentarily taken aback, gawking at something behind Will. Surprised, Will turned, but it was just the apartment. He supposed it was a _bit_ of a mess—he’d been working when Suzie called, and hadn’t bothered packing up the folders scattered here and there. But Will didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

Shaking himself, Jack turned back to Will. “I see you’ve been busy. Are you ready to go?”

Will nodded.

“Follow me.” Jack turned and started quickly walking down the hall. Will hurried after him.

“One female victim, found at Dickenson College.” Jack said, as they made their way down the stairs. “Elise Nichols. Nineteen. Freshman. No declared major.” Will noticed idly that they were heading down a set of tunnels he had not seen before. “Same basic profile as the others. Five-six, 130 pounds. Taxidermied. Posed. Roommate found her this morning, after spending the weekend out,” continued Jack. _Right,_ Will thought as they climbed up a flight of stairs, _today is Sunday._ “Carlisle PD is keeping rubberneckers at bay until after we’ve had a chance to go over the scene. You now know what I know.” Jack concluded, pushing open a door at the top of the stairs and passing through. Will followed.

They had entered a cavernous, half-lit, multi-bay garage, filled with vehicles. He didn’t have much chance to look around as they hurried towards a waiting black SUV. But in the short time he did have, he noted what looked like several additional black vans or SUVs, a few smaller cars, a few motorcycles and what looked like a tow truck. _How many people do they have here anyway?_ Will thought, _From the maintenance equipment scattered about, this also serves double-duty as a service center, so it’s possible not all the vehicles are theirs. But it’s still an awful lot…_

Will was surprised to see Jack head for the trunk rather than the drivers seat. Opening the trunk, he gestured Will forward.

“We’ll more formally equip you later. For now this will have to do.” Jack gestured to an open container. Peering closer, Will saw that it contained a radio, pistol case, ballistic vest, and a black jacket with “FBI” written on it in huge white letters.

Hurriedly, Will put on the vest and jacket. _Now ain’t this a hell of a thing,_ he thought with a slight grin. Despite everything—a decade of rejections from various police forces on the eastern seaboard, being drummed out of the NOPD, the attack—well here he was. _Wonder what dad would think to see me now…_

_***_

The trip to Dickenson was long, with Jack alternately taking calls and focusing on the road in front of them. Will was, quite frankly, surprised Jack was even capable of taking calls. Early on, he’d made the mistake of glancing at the speedometer and gotten queasy.

Ignoring the scenery racing past, Will mentally reviewed what he knew, but no matter how many times he did so, no further insights came.

Soon enough, they arrived.

Navigating by GPS, Jack pulled into a dorm parking lot. To Will’s surprise, it actually looked quite nice. Pretty brick buildings, large white windows—not at all like the brutalist catastrophe he’d expected. Glancing around the parking lot, he saw several similar-looking black vans and SUVs, which he assumed was the advance team Jack talked to _en route_.

Parking, Jack took the keys and jumped out of the SUV, leaving Will scrambling to unbuckle his seatbelt and follow. As they crossed the parking lot, they passed an intimidating guard in also in a black FBI jacket. Will briefly recognized him as Philip Langton from the barracks rec room. Will was surprised to see Langton held one of the ominous looking custom shotguns he’d noticed from the armory tour. _What kind of trouble do they expect? It’s a college campus! Student sit-ins can’t get that_ _out of hand!_

Unsure of what else to do, Will continued to follow Jack as he made a circuit of the parking lot. He wasn’t sure what the reason was for the exercise, but Jack seemed pleased with what he saw. Seeing a Carlisle PD officer standing near the dorm’s entrance, Jack headed over.

“Jack Crawford,” Jack said to the young officer, holding out his badge. “Director, FTRB.”

“Detective Drew Hodges, Carlisle PD,” the man spluttered, glancing briefly at Jack’s badge. “How can I help you?”

 _Clearly,_ Will thought, _what he means is ‘How can I most quickly get rid of you?’_

“Status of the crime scene?”

“Your men are inside,” the local officer spluttered. “With a psychiatrist local PD brought in. The students have been directed to a lounge area. We had an extra set of dorm passes made up for the investigating officers.” The officer handed a white card to Jack.

Jack flashed a forced smile, taking the card, clearly thrilled at the news that local PD brought _their own_ consultant. Instead he said, “Good thinking. And good of you to rope off the scene.”

The man smiled awkwardly. Jack nodded toward both of them, and then swiped himself into the building. Will followed.

Immediately inside the main entrance was a common room, where a group of students huddled around a low wooden table talking in hushed tones. They looked up as Jack and Will passed, before returning to their worried speculation. _How oddly dissonant,_ he thought as they made their way up the stairs. _Happy murals, bulletin boards, and upcoming event announcements…it seems all wrong somehow, that death has intruded on such a place. But I suppose I’m being naive. How many times have I responded to shootings where the victim, or worse the perpetrator, was too young for high school, let alone college._

Entering the second floor, Jack and Will ducked under bright yellow police tape. Passing another common room, Will saw what he presumed to be the roommate hyperventilating in a corner. A well-dressed man, in a dark blue plaid suit, tried ineffectually to comfort her. _Waste of time,_ thought Will, assuming the man was with the school. _Shock like this, she might well just go home and start over next year at a different school._

Jack stopped at the entryway to what Will presumed to be the victim’s room. Turning to Will, Jack said, “Let me know when you’re ready to talk. Just don’t get in anyone’s way.”

Will entered the room cautiously. A part of him was aware Price and Zeller were also working the room, but his attention focused solely on Nichols. _Brown hair, past her shoulders, blue eyes, hint of baby fat remaining on her cheeks, laugh lines, wind-chaffed skin, A runner, perhaps, or a cyclist?_ Will bent down to examine the body more closely. _No, the muscle tone is wrong in the legs. Pink pajama pants, old Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt. Pinks and purples and light reds. Very traditional. Very storybook._

He then turned his attention to Nichols’ surroundings. _Hmm, a breakfast scene. Small carton of milk, glass of orange juice, bowl of dry cereal, she even has a spoon in her hand. Even a banana. All part of a balanced breakfast, neatly arranged in the midst of…_ Will looked around the dorm room. While neater than he remembered his own dorm room, the table in front of him was the only clear surface. Even Nichols’ bed was covered with the flotsam and jetsam of college life.

 _A play, a play, it is all a play, that much was clear from the files. But seeing it…_ Will began to revisit the photos in his mind. Emily Collins, carefully posed in front of a mirror in a teal prom dress at a vanity, applying lipstick. In her _very conservatively cut_ prom dress, applying lipstick of a color not quite matching her complexion. Claire Bartels, curled in sweats, reading a book. Curled in pastel, _ill-fitting_ sweats, adorned with cute script saying ‘Daddy’s little angel’. Maggie Bradford, posed at a checkerboard, wearing a faded green Girl Scouts t-shirt and a long pink skirt, but never a member of any Girl Scouts troop.

Struck by sudden insight, Will turned his attention to Nichols’ wardrobe.

***

Jack watched with interest as Will made his way around the room. _Funny how quickly he fixated on the girl. I’m not even sure he realized Price and Zeller are there._ He was curious to see how Will performed. While he hadn’t said it at the time, he’d been impressed with Will’s insights when they first discussed the case, particularly as Will had only an hour to prepare. What Jack had not expected was for Will to continue working on the project afterward, but Will had done just that.

He had been surprised at the vehemence with which Dr. Bloom objected to Will’s return to the field. _Frankly I don’t care if he and Bloom were dropping acid in college. Hell, I don’t care if Graham’s dropping acid now. As long as he can do the work._ While the taxidermist was still a relatively unimportant case, it had begun to draw a strong media following, which in turn was starting to cause a moral panic. _Dead pretty white girls,_ Jack frowned, _reporters and the public love this stuff. And now at a college._ He didn’t envy local PD. Just at the time when they needed to focus, they’d be forced to deal with endless press conferences.

Despite his comforting words to the Carlisle PD officer outside, Jack was not at all happy with the security situation. The outside cordon would keep out casual meddlers, and should prevent anyone from planting little surprises on their vehicles. But there was no way they could completely secure the dorm building itself with their limited manpower, let alone secure the many, many, spots on campus with a line of sight on the proceedings. As a rule, he tried to avoid conducting these sorts of investigations at night. _Too hard to keep the riffraff out, and the evidence in. And well, it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to take a shot at us to save their own hide._

Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to see Donald McCusker approaching, holding his brown leather briefcase. This evening Donald had accentuated his usual tweed jacket with a bow tie in blue and white polka dots. From the man’s dour expression, Jack assumed he’d just finished talking to the local ‘experts’.

“Where are we on the roommate?” Jack asked briskly, without preamble.

McCusker shook his head. “They have a psychiatrist speaking with her right now. I’ll let him wrap up, speak to her, and take a look at his notes,” McCusker replied, absentmindedly brushing a stray hair from his face.

“For all the good it will do.” Jack shook his head. _Local hacks. They either come with a chip on their shoulder, or a desperate need to impress._ “Just keep an eye on Graham.” He instructed, as he moved to leave the room.

“How is he doing?” McCusker asked, eying Graham.

“We just arrived. But when you get back, you should take a look at the set-up in the apartment.”

“Oh?”

“Walls, floor, every surface covered in notes. Maps on the wall, bits of string connecting things, it’s a miracle he can get to the door.”

McCusker laughed, “sounds like he’ll fit right in!”

“What are you doing?!” Jack spun around as he heard Price shout in horror. “Don’t eat the crime scene!”

Jack cringed, noting the local psychiatrist had just entered the room. He looked at Graham, who was standing by the desk, eyes closed, lips pursed. Finally Graham said, “He was here today.”

“What? How do you—“ Zeller started.

“The cereal isn’t stale. The milk is still fresh.” Graham promptly responded, before wandering over to Nichols’ dresser and starting to rifle through her clothes.

Price shot Jack a look of confused desperation. Jack suppressed a sigh. _Just what I need._ He turned back to McCusker, and saw he had already left.

***

Donald McCusker closed his notebook and thanked the roommate, before offering to get her a bottle of water from the vending machine. She shook her head. He watched as she sadly shuffled down the hall towards the lounge and her surviving friends.

It was hard enough for him, at his age, to deal with loss, to see someone so young weighed down so heavily was… He was just glad it was such a straightforward case, without any of the grim murkiness that plagued so much of their work.

He’d spent a better part of the Cold War bouncing between various chemical and psychological warfare groups, before taking a ‘retirement’ to join the FTRB. He sighed. _The only advantage in all that lab work was that I at least never saw the subjects. Numbers and figures and test tubes, it was all merely an intellectual exercise._

Donald almost smiled. There were times in his career, that if someone told him he would wind up with the FBI, he would have assumed they meant in custody. _Particularly_ given his work within the intelligence community.

Walking back into Nichols’ room, he looked inside and saw Graham talking to the local psychiatrist, (more accurately, the local psychiatrist talking to Graham), “…To see death in one so young, in a strange way makes one feel alive, do you not think?” The local psychiatrist expressed profoundly.

Graham did not immediately respond, instead staring intently at a drawer full of shirts. Donald smiled. The local psychiatrist seemed unsure how to interact with Graham. Donald could sympathize. After all, Graham was not conventionally mad.

Donald took the opportunity to closely examine the local psychiatrist. The man was flamboyantly dressed—a very well tailored plaid three piece suit, in dark blue and copper, a bright blue shirt, with a complimenting paisley tie and pocket square. Donald was no stranger to eccentric fashion choices, but this quite remarkable even by his standards.

Finally, after a very uncomfortable silence, Graham responded. “Those aren’t her clothes.”

The local doctor seemed unfazed by the complete non-sequitur. “Oh?” He leaned forward peering over Graham’s shoulder, stepping uncomfortably close.

“She doesn’t own any other pajamas.” Graham mumbled half to himself as he continued to methodically examine her clothing. “She doesn’t own anything pink, and Strawberry Shortcake? No, the style is all wrong. The killer dressed her up in clothing he picked.”

McCusker cut in, extending a hand to the doctor. “Donald McCusker. You’re the psychiatrist?”

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” The man serenely replied, extending a firm handshake. The man’s features were surprisingly sharp, and there was a cold stillness to his face as if it was made of marble, not made of flesh. His blonde hair was perfectly conventional, smoothed back and parted to the left, but it stood out due to its perfection. Not a single strand was out of place.

From beside them, Graham looked up, and shuffled a few steps backwards. “Where’s the roommate?” He asked.

“She left.” Donald replied. “Campus safety is getting her a new room.”

“Oh. I’d hoped to talk to her.” Graham paused, frowning. “Does she go out often? I wonder how the killer knew she’s be gone this weekend.”

Lecter looked down at his notes. “She is still acclimating to the rhythms of college life. This was her first tentative experiment with the nightlife, and I expect to be her last, for the foreseeable future. Apparently Miss Nichols spent much of last semester convincing her roommate to go out, as the girl was deeply religious.” He paused, before adding. “The poor girl feels terrible. She feels that but for her absence, this weekend’s tragedy would not have occurred, and it is God’s direct punishment for her sinful actions.”

Graham nodded and wandered out into the hallway, leaving the two psychiatrists alone. Donald had seen that behavior before, especially in the lab. You’d find scientists so preoccupied they’d forget about meals, let alone conversation. It was rather funny, seeing it here at crime scene. He looked over at Lecter’s carbon copy notepad. “Could I get a set of those?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I can send you a copy of the report. You’ll receive it in a day or two.”

Donald shook his head. “Nah, no need to wait. I’m happy to look at the raw notes.” There was something odd about the man. Lecter dressed like a fop, yet his eyes betrayed a cold intelligence.

Lecter smiled tightly as he removed the duplicate and handed it to him. Briefly flipping through the almost illegible scrawl, Donald sighed. _Doctors. Oh well, I can make Bowman decode it._

“I should caution you,” Lecter said, his face still strangely impenetrable. “I use shorthand extensively when taking notes.” Lecter paused briefly before continuing, “Anything else I may assist you with this evening?” He was the picture of politeness, yet, Donald noticed a slight tone of icy condescension, unnoticeable to the untrained ear.

“This should do.” Donald folded the notes and stuffed them in his jacket pocket, turning to leave.

“If you have any questions, here is my number.” Lecter extended a business card. “Do you have a card?”

Donald took the cream colored card and without looking at it, placed it into the pocket with the notes. He patted down his other jacket pocket. _Nope. It looks like I left them all at home._ Instead he replied. “Someone will call you if we have any follow-up questions.”

 

**F. T. R. B. — Autopsy Room**

Brian Zeller enjoyed his job. It was a series of fantastic puzzles, finding all the weird shit about this or that body, crime scene or whatever. He didn’t have to worry about _how_ it happened—or more importantly, why. He liked it, it wasn’t _that_ mentally taxing, and after his work was done, they would all gather and the brain trust would explain what it all meant. _But Graham seemed poised to complicate that simple formula,_ he thought nervously.

“We couldn’t even get a fingerprint off her!” Jimmy Price groaned.

“It’s not surprising, given the care he took setting up the scene.” McCusker said, leaning against the edge of Brian’s desk.

The Science Team was gathered in the autopsy room, just waiting for the new ‘Special Investigator’. Somehow Brian wasn’t surprised the new investigator was late. Earlier, he’d figured the guy just needed some time, and would warm up to them eventually…maybe after his arm healed. The arm improved, Will Graham was just as anti-social as before. Then, Brian saw the ear, sitting slightly chewed in an evidence baggie. _Holy Jesus, that guy was certifiably nuts._

Finally, Graham wandered into the room. “Um…sorry I’m late. The toilet in the men’s room broke…” He said uncertainly. “…and when I checked the tank…” He placed a large clear waterproof bag on a counter in autopsy room. “I found this.” Brian almost jumped back. Inside the bag was a pistol, several magazines, and a _grenade_? _The fuck…!_ Glancing around he noticed that Lloyd Bowman and Jimmy were slowly maneuvering the autopsy cart between themselves and Graham.

Jack exhaled. “I’ll speak to Tom.”

Jimmy and Brian exchanged glances. Beverly looked around at the rather terrified science team. She spoke slowly, clearly trying to reassure the room. “Will, I know you’re trying to help…but when you find hidden weapons caches, just leave them alone. Don’t remove them, don’t move them. It’s just encouraging him to plant more.”

“There’s more?!” Lloyd almost squeaked out.

Jack glared around the room. “It’s under control.”

Beverly reassuringly patted Will on the back. “I talked to Suzie about it. She says since ‘Nam he’s not really comfortable unless he has weapons within easy reach. Just humor him, ok?”

Graham nodded slowly. Brian slowly inched to join Jimmy. _Who the fuck brings a grenade out of the men’s room?_

Jack spoke loudly, clearly trying to get the conversation back on track. “Alright. Nichols body. What have you got? Price said no fingerprints.”

“No DNA of the suspect either.” Beverly added. “She scraped her own palms.”

“What we _did_ figure out,” Brian circled the metal autopsy cart. “Same as the others, her throat was cut, she died of rapid blood loss, total blood loss actually, he drained her.” The inhabitants of the room looked at him blankly.

“I was not aware taxidermists were in the habit of leaving blood in their subjects.” Lloyd looked at Brian skeptically.

“So are we any closer to finding what happened to the internals?” McCusker asked, with a frown.

“He’s not throwing them away. He means to honor them.” Graham abruptly responded.

Brian nervously glanced to Beverly, who gave what he hoped she thought was a reassuring half smile. He didn’t feel reassured. He felt even less reassured when he noticed McCusker and Jack share a similar smile. _So much for Jack knowing what he’s doing…_

Graham continued. “To him, these are not acts of cruelty. They are acts of tenderness and mercy.” Graham paused, momentarily circling the autopsy cart. He leaned closer to the body. With a sad frown, he added, “He may be eating them.”

Silence. Brian glanced at Graham and felt an almost overwhelming impulse to leave the room, or failing that, retrieve the gun from the bag and turn it on Graham. The ‘Special Investigator’s’ eyes had taken on an eerie sheen, eyes focused on something only he could see. Just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, Graham nervously licked his lips. Brian now wished he’d paid more attention to the ‘self defense’ classes Tom had taught.

“He doesn’t want to hurt them.” Graham continued. “These girls are precious. It’s his way of controlling his impulses. He’s saving them.” Graham looked up, his reverie broken. “Excuse me.” The ‘Special’ Investigator wandered out of the room in a daze, leaving the rest of the team in stunned silence.

Brian glanced around, his eyes settling on the little bobble head Jesus standing on one of the bookshelves, forlornly peeping out from behind one of the many anatomy reference books. _Yeah…I’m confused too buddy._

“Welcome to the team?” Jimmy asked weakly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! Next week Jack learns about what happened in New Orleans...
> 
> As always, feedback and questions welcome!


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a couple friends pointed out to me that the title of the fic has problems, namely as is it sounds like a one off death fic, which it isn't. It's supposed to be a joke on vampires...which apparently isn't clear. Suggestions to change it to The Long Death of Hannibal Lecter? 
> 
> What are people's views on this? Should I leave it as is? Change it? Other suggestions?

 

_Jack—we finally got Graham’s application file from a couple years back. Holy red flags Batman. Fun fact, after the Bureau bounced him, he applied to the Boston PD and worked his way south._

_-Note from Tom, accompanying Graham’s file_

 

**FTRB Headquarters - Spurgen’s Office - The Next Day**

Kurt Spurgen was a straightforward man. While Jack might enjoy the mind games and idle musings. Kurt didn’t have time for such distractions. As Commander of the Tactical Unit, his to-do list was already long enough, thank you.

Walking into his office, he took a moment to appreciate its functional simplicity. It might be a concrete, windowless box, buried deep underground, but it was safe. It was secure, and thanks to the FTRB’s _supplemental_ funding sources, it was much more comfortable than anything he’d ever had in the Army.

Sadly, however, day drinking would have to wait. He had twenty minutes to read this damn Will Graham report and grab a bite to eat. Collapsing into his sinfully comfortable ergonomic swivel chair, he leaned back and casually flipped to the executive summary.

Three paragraphs in, he swore. _I’m not getting lunch._

Reaching out, his left hand hit the intercom button on his phone. “Rankin! My office! Now!”

Kurt returned to the report. It was not a pleasant read.

A few minutes later, Kurt’s second, John Rankin, stepped into his office. “Reporting, Sir.”

Kurt glanced up, and tried not to smile. No matter what Rankin did, his brown hair would not cooperate, creating a messy look. _At that point, I’d just get a crew cut,_ Kurt thought. “I have a meeting with Crawford in 10. Think back, what happened on your tour with Graham?” He asked.

“Gave him the usual tour. Didn’t talk much. Showed him the barracks, didn’t take him inside. Went to the armory, fired a few rounds. Casey made fun of him ‘cause he wanted a 9mm--”

“What exactly did he see? Did he do anything suspicious?”

Rankin looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “You met the man? He’s suspicious as hell. Peeking ‘rounds corners, up on shelves, down under tables. Opens _everything._ It’s like he’s casing the place. If you don’t mind me saying, sir, I’m surprised he was let on base.”

Kurt gritted his teeth.

“I took the normal precautions.” Rankin continued, defensively.

Kurt shook his head, and warily looked at the report now disheveled on his desk. “Might not have been enough. Turns out,” he waved the report at Rankin, “there were damn good reasons we—the Bureau that is—didn’t hire him before.” Kurt sighed. “Damage done. For now, keep an eye on him. Always. Set it up.”

***

After grabbing a baloney sandwich from the canteen, Kurt hurried through the tunnels to the Science Building, then up to Jack’s office. Finishing the sandwich, he stuffed the plastic wrapper into his pocket and opened Jack’s door.

 _Damn it,_ he thought, surveying the room. _Last one here._ Entering, Kurt took his usual place against the wall by the door. _At least Jack’s on the phone; I hate it when they start without me._

Jack’s office was well lit, and even had some natural light, though it only came from a small, barred window, quite high off the ground. Despite Kurt’s security concerns, Jack had insisted. _And when Jack digs his heels in…best just to go along. Donald and Katz might be able to talk him down subtle like, but I never got the knack._

Kurt noted with approval at the large black metal cabinet behind Jack’s desk. It was locked up tight. _Need to be careful, with Graham wandering about._ Taking a small spiral bound notebook out of his back pocket, he scribbled a note to remind the teams to take similar precautions. _Never know when Graham will wind up wandering through. There’s plenty there he shouldn’t be seeing._

Kurt took advantage of Jack’s still ongoing phone call to take stock of the room. Sitting on the couch next to Kurt, against the wall opposite Jack’s desk, sat Agent Beverly Katz. Katz was clearly agitated, idly flipping through her own notes. _Glad someone else had the proper reaction to the report,_ Kurt thought.

In front of her and off to the side, sat Dr. Donald McCusker. He’d pulled out one of the chairs that sat directly across from Jack’s desk. While Katz showed her discomfort clearly, Donald’s face was an unreadable mask. _But of course, if he’s got concerns; he’ll raise them privately with Jack. Likely already has. Makes a point not to disagree in public, since everyone knows Donald was offered the job, and Jack only got it ‘cause Donald turned it down. Good man, Donald. Most folk wouldn’t be so considerate._

 _Of course, if there’s a real issue, I’ll just raise it with Jack privately too._ After all, Kurt was Jack’s Sergeant during his stint in the Army. They’d worked well together, and subsequently whenever able, they’d done so again. It was no surprised that not long after Jack’s retirement, Jack had shown up at Spurgen’s door with an offer to join the FTRB.

Rounding out the group were Dr. Alana Bloom, and their resident odd couple, Suzie and Tom Hubble. Dr. Bloom stood by the wall opposite Suzie. As usual, she wore a brightly colored wrap dress and a worried expression. _Why oh why, does Jack need input from our resident trauma surgeon? Graham can’t have done anything that bad in the last twenty minutes. Could he? Probably more likely Jack just wants to head off a later, private conversation._

Suzie seemed lost in thought, staring intently at the large incident map on Jack’s wall. The map of the US had its usual assortment of multi-colored pins on it. _Hope she makes more sense of it than I can. It’s all just noise to me._

With finality, Jack hung up the phone. Turning to face the group, he leaned forward and smiled tightly. “My apologies—Higher called unexpectedly. Trouble brewing near Pittsburgh. Wanted to take my mind.” Kurt raised an eyebrow. _Great. Higher._ His boss, Jack’s boss, all their boss. _Have to tell Rankin to pull out our maps of Pittsburgh in case we have to take a trip._

Jack continued. “But enough about that. Graham.” Jack gestured to the report on his desk. “Had I received all this information 72 hours ago, we would not have brought Mr. Graham to Dickenson.”

Bloom looked pained, sort of sad, but not really surprised. “Yes. Will bit off the man’s ear and then set him on fire.” She crossed her arms defensively.

“Where is he now?” Jack looked at Kurt.

“We’ll be keeping an eye on him. Rankin’s setting it up.” Kurt replied.

“He had free reign of the compound?” Jack raised an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t call it that. Rankin didn’t show him everything.”

“What did he see?”

“Standard tour. Canteen, locker room, where the barracks is—don’t worry, they didn’t go in. They went to the armory.”

“Rankin took him to the armory?”

Kurt shrugged. “It’s the usual tour.”

“I think we can all agree that Zeller’s report changes the situation. We have a potentially dangerous man wandering around the base.”

Katz controlled a nervous laugh. “Have you seen the tactical team?” She looked at Kurt. “No offense intended.”

Kurt nodded. ‘ _Potentially dangerous’. Eh? Fuck ‘potentially’, my team’s straight dangerous._

Katz continued. “We’ve seen far worse. Didn’t we have this conversation about King last year?” _Megan King. Damn good with explosives. Damn good at rappelling and breaking and entering. Crazier than a sack of monkeys._ “When have we not found red flags?” She continued. “The answer is always the same. Wall them off in the beginning, and slowly ease them in.”

Donald spoke, always the voice of moderation. “I think we all agree that the work we do is complicated and dangerous. We’re still here because we’ve spent several years avoiding large risks. We shouldn’t start taking them _now_.”

“That’s nice,” Katz continued, “But when have we _not_ recruited damaged goods.” She looked around the room. Kurt suppressed a grin. _Ballsy. True, but ballsy._

Thinking out loud, Jack said, “The question in my mind is, is he stable? Strange we can handle. Even dangerous and violent we can handle.” That time, Kurt didn’t even try to suppress the chuckle. _Too right we can, Graham’s_ _scrawny as hell._

Donald continued. “We should think this through. This isn’t just a new member of the tactical team. We’d be bringing him onto the science team. He’d not only have greater access to information, he could do a lot more damage.” Spurgen let out a snort. _He did have a point. Those lab rats were squishy. Hell, even a mall cop could take them out._

“Suzie, you haven’t said much. Thoughts?” Jack turned to the old woman.

Suzie Hubble shrugged her shoulders. “Seems like a nice enough boy. According to Casey, can’t shoot for shit, and uses a girl gun to boot. What’s he gonna to do? He can’t get off base without us knowing, and worst comes to worst, well we got a backhoe.”

A long awkward silence filled the room, as Dr. Bloom glared daggers at Suzie. Unfazed, Suzie turned to the younger woman, looked her straight on, and said, “What? Why are you giving me that look? You were thinking it too!” _…and this is why I never cross Suzie Hubble…_ Kurt thought cringing.

Katz cut in, clearly trying to break the tension. “Suzie’s right, he can’t do any _real_ harm.”

Dr. Bloom vehemently shook her head. “No, Donald’s right. We don’t know. We’re not talking about someone who gets in bar fights, or collects mortars like they’re popcaps.” _Fuck. I have to have a word with Cracknell. If even Bloom knows…_

Dr. Bloom continued, “He’s always been unstable. His old report covers that. This isn’t the work for him. We should transition him somewhere else, as quickly as possible. While we still can.”

Donald spoke, “According to these reports, we’re talking about someone who can think like our adversaries and has a substantial but unknown capacity for violence. There’s no need to make any hasty decisions, Yes, he could be dangerous. But he could also do immense good.” He gave Suzie a sharp look, “the least we can do is refrain from putting him in the field prematurely.”

Jack nodded, “His psych evaluation is old. Donald, can you do a new one?”

Donald frowned. “I can, I don’t expect to find much different.” _At least Donald is wise to Jack’s habit of asking the same question until he gets the “right” answer_ , Spurgen thought.

“Until then, he can read reports. Sound good?”

Dr. Bloom shook her head. “We should transition him out as soon as possible—before he sees too much. While he still has a chance. We can’t risk him trying to flip, or worse.”

Jack shook his head. "He's won’t turn. He’s a patriot. Worse case he goes vigilante.”

"Are you sure you're not just thinking about some other young patriot— who saw too much?" Dr. Bloom said pointedly.

 _Oh shit._ Kurt thought, immediately averting his gaze. _Now she’s gone too far._ The room fell deadly quiet. Katz’s face had slipped into an unreadable mask. Suzie for some reason seemed to be trying mightily to suppress a grin. Dr. Donald was suddenly very interested in disassembling his pen.

Jack merely raised an eyebrow. After briefly glancing around the room, Dr. Bloom turned and left. _Yeah…that seems about right._

“Anyone else?” Jack glanced around the room.

Kurt finally spoke, breaking the tension. “Look. After reading the report, whoever he went up against wasn’t exactly a tough customer. Young, inexperienced, and over confident. He got stupid, Graham got lucky. We’re used to dealing with a lot worse than Will Graham. He may be good at ‘seeing things’, but he doesn’t look like he’s good at hiding, and doesn’t look like he’s good at running. Worst case, Suzie had it right. Backhoe.”

Jack nodded. “Fine. We’ve already heard from Katz’s and McCusker’s, and Dr. Bloom has recused herself. The rest of us agree, he stays?” Nobody moved. _Great._ Kurt thought. _Now I get to go explain this to the Team._

**A River Outside York PA -- A Couple Days Later**

_This is why I work indoors,_ Brian thought as he pulled on his gloves. Finishing, he looked up to see Graham wander out of the woods and join them on the riverbank. The former NOPD detective, looked, if anything, the best Brian had ever seen him. _Go figure,_ he thought, _He looks like he just walked out of a Lands End ad, while I haven’t been out here for five minutes and am chattering like a tiger stuck on an iceberg._

As another spray of cold water splashed against him, Brian looked around. Beverly and Jack still locked in discussion with the local officers, and Jimmy Price standing next to him, gloves and tools out, giving him an expression that screamed, ‘Can we just get on with it?’

Resigned, Brian turned back to the reason for their ‘outdoor adventure’, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. The February air tried to help the smell of the body pinned to a granite monument near an outcropping of rocks, but there was only so much it could do. It was, or had been, a young girl, high school or college aged, from the look of her. _That’s a fucked up way to go._ The young woman had been stripped, chained down to a granite monument, and cut up. Worse yet, ravens had already discovered the body, risking the occasional spray of water for an early supper. Sighing, Brian moved closer to examine the body. _Time to earn my pay, I guess._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW: Kurt Spurgen is the head of the tactical team in Red Dragon. There was some debate on if we should cut the scene, but one of my beta readers really loves him, and felt it was a great way to show the FBI leadership at work. Hope it wasn't too slow. If you're worried, the action picks up next week and goes up from there.
> 
> Next week: The investigation continues and we meet a Freddie! 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and views always welcome!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The body is inspired by this statue, http://costumesofhannibal.tumblr.com/post/157625472444/the-long-death-of-hannibal-lecter

_“It’s too bad we can’t take him. Not as an FBI Agent, good God no, but his mind! I want to crack it open and play.”_

_“Steve, the age of Hoover is done. We can’t just grab an interesting specimen off the street and lock ‘em in an institution to study.”_

_“This man could be the best agent the Agency has ever had, or could cause a catastrophe that puts Waco to shame. Best look for safer options.”_

_—Agents’ Notes on Graham’s Old Psyche Eval_

 

**A River Outside York, PA**

“For God’s sake, get this over her.” Brian Zeller turned around, seeing John Rankin hurrying over with a white sheet. After handing the sheet to Jimmy Price, Rankin turned to the local police officers. “And don’t just stand there and gape,” Rankin admonished. “This ain’t a damn peep show.”

The officers uncomfortably backed off while Brian and Jimmy clambered uncertainly onto the boulders, trying with mixed success to keep their clothes dry. Together they carefully arranged the sheet onto the naked body, giving the body the image of some sort of creepy dining table.

Standing safely back on the riverbank, Beverly read from her notes, “Our victim here is one Cassandra, ‘Cassie’ Boyle. Some hikers found her. Lucky for us, it’s a popular trail.” She turned the page. “The granite slab was stolen from a graveyard next county over.”

“We’re in the right region. She fits the profile, but what kind of domestic scene is this?” Jack stated incredulously.

“Maybe his MO has changed.” Brian said, lifting the sheet to examine a limb. “Looks like someone left the maiden out for the dragon.” He quipped. No one laughed. He swallowed, inspecting the gaping wound in her chest. “Err…no taxidermy here, but she is missing organs. Maybe our killer got lazy? He didn’t even bother to stitch her up.” He dropped the sheet, and took a step back. “Heart and lungs are missing, looks like it happened while she was still alive, and her blood’s drained too.”

“So much for controlling impulses,” Jack gave Will Graham a significant look.

Graham frowned, wading into the water. Unlike the others, he was wearing large and in Brian’s view, extremely unfashionable rubber booties. Brian watched with increasing unease as Graham circled the body repeatedly, staring at it with an almost predatory gleam in his eyes.

Finally Graham spoke. “Completely different killer.” Without as much as a glance at the others, he turned, climbed out of the river, and began heading back down the trail towards the parking lot.

“Will?” Beverly called after him.

Graham stopped, turning he said, “This killer, this display, showcases the suffering of a frail inferior. No care, no consideration, no mercy. He _enjoyed_ this, _relished_ watching _her_ watch _him_ take her apart.” Graham wrinkled his nose in disgust. “ _Our killer_ , works quickly, painlessly. Organ removal is careful, tender and _post-mortem._ One incision cut to the esophagus, carotid, trachea and jugular— Elise Nichols died within two seconds. Quickly, cleanly, with little pain.” Graham paused, seemingly lost in thought.

Just when the pause was becoming unbearable, Jimmy Price spoke up. “You know, I saw a documentary on Kosher slaughterhouses. That’s the technique they use.”

“So…we’re looking for someone who keeps Kosher?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, probably not. _Shechita_ , that’s the ritual, is actually very complicated. But, more often than not, kosher slaughterhouses hire immigrants or locals to do the brute work.”

Brian looked a Jimmy skeptically. “When did _you_ become an expert in kosher law?”

“It’s not my fault you neglect your continuing education!”

“Continuing education? I bet this was another of your Discovery Channel specials?”

“So?”

Jack cut in. “So, we should be looking for someone who _works_ at a slaughterhouse?” He seemed unconvinced.

“Will?” Beverly asked.

Brian turned around and saw that Graham was now standing in the river, seemingly transfixed by the shimmering, rushing water. Sure, the water wasn’t _that cold_ , and the sun glinted off the waterfall creating a pretty cascade of rainbows, but booties or not, it couldn’t be _pleasant._

“Will?” Beverly asked again.

Graham continued staring at something in the waterfall. In spite of himself, Brian turned to look. There was nothing there.

“Will?” Beverly raised her voice.

“Is he…humming?” Jimmy whispered.

Yes, yes he was. A horrible arrhythmic, toneless monstrosity that sent a shiver down Brian’s spine.

 _Still_ ignoring them, Graham began walking towards the waterfall, still humming.

With a sigh, Beverly waded into the stream after him. Reaching him, she touched his shoulder. Immediately, Graham spun around with a look of confusion.

“Hm? Oh, he idolizes these girls.” Graham resumed, as if nothing had happened. “He wants to preserve them, freeze them in time. These girls are avatars for someone he loves, someone who is going away. A daughter, college bound. He’s held her close as long as he could, longer even. But soon she will have to go.”

Glancing around, Brian was glad to see the others looked just as confused as he was. _Yep, the vote’s unanimous. Jack hired a crazy person._

“So, we’re looking for a slaughterhouse tech with a daughter?” Jack’s face had a pained expression.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Graham replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Either way, he cares about animals. He’s also a part time taxidermist. Possibly self-taught.”

“Ok.” Jack said, “Why don’t you check the nearby slaughterhouses? Run down any leads. Beverly can start making phone calls.” Jack nodded at Beverly before adding, “Perhaps you and Dr. Lecter can make a few site visits.” Brian was momentarily confused. _Lecter? Oh the local shrink from Dickenson._

Graham paused for a moment too long, and Brian feared he might be about to go weird again. Instead, he simply replied, “Fine” in a flat monotone. And _finally,_ turned again, and started down the trail.

“What about…” Jack yelled after him, waving towards the body on the slab, “ _that_.”

“Don’t bother.” The ‘Special’ Investigator shouted over his shoulder. “Have local PD write up a report, or _Dr. Lecter_ for all the good it will do.”

“That’s it?” Jack shouted back, sounding bewildered.

Graham looked over his shoulder and gestured at the sheet-covered rock. “You won’t find this serpent, not here. This artful little display is a show, an exhibit, arranged with deliberation and malice aforethought.” He stopped, and looked contemplative for a moment. “For whose benefit, that’s the question you should be asking.”

Graham suddenly looked at Jack. Brian couldn’t help notice an odd manic gleam in his eyes. “ _Yours_ , I can only assume. Whoever did this knows of our taxidermist, or your interest. Who would taunt you so? And why? What abyssal depths rest behind those eyes Jack? You’ll find more answers plumbing those depths, than in examining the chained maiden.”

Graham half turned, staring eyes unseeing into the distance, at what Brian didn’t _want_ to know. “Or by finding our paternal taxidermist.” He continued in a distant voice, “I wonder why he was so gifted to us? No, you’ll only find the serpent if he gets sloppy. He’s too good at controlling his impulses. I would be. You would too.”

Shuffling nervously, Brian glanced uneasily from Beverly, to Rankin, to Jimmy, and then to Jack. Like him, they all seemed at a loss for words. _Graham makes it sound almost like some whacko thinks he’s flirting with Jack._

Fortunately, Graham seemed satisfied, and wandered off down the trail without further comment.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to let him go off alone…with a gun?” Brian asked sheepishly, making sure Graham was finally out of earshot.

Jack glared down at him. “Who can we spare to babysit him?”

Brian’s mouth tightened. If things went sideways at the cemetery, the last they wanted was Will Graham breathing down their necks. Someone had stolen the monument and set this all up, in one night. Whoever did this clearly wanted them to go to the cemetery. For what reason, they didn’t know, but given the circumstances, they couldn’t decline the invitation. And he didn’t think this killer just be waiting there to embrace Jack with flowers and chocolates.

Jack nodded at Brian’s silence. “Then he’s going off alone with a gun.”

_Well, I’m not going with him, so if he shoots someone, it’s not my problem._

“Anything else?” Jack asked, looking around at the remaining group.

“It looks like some tabloid reporter got wind of this.” Beverly grimaced looking up from her phone.

“Just what we need.” Jack grumbled. He straightened up, energy returning. “Right, we’re going to finish bagging and tagging.”

Brian swatted away an overenthusiastic bird. _First we’ve got to figure out how to detach her from the slab…_

 

**Apartment Outside Baltimore**

Freddie Lounds hung up her phone, sat back and smiled. Despite what others might say, she was proud of TattleCrime.com. _Here I am, making a respectable amount in my pajamas. All those hacks that went to Journalism School and whine about the death of papers, they have it all wrong. News isn’t dead, it just moved online._

She opened Google Analytics and grinned. She’d barely posted the article when the tips started flying in. And that latest tip, _whew, who needs creeptastic body photos, when you have creeptastic FBI?_

 _Maybe I can spin this out into a series. People like narratives. And who knows?_ A mischievous smile crossed Freddie’s face. _Maybe there isn’t one. In that case, I can always just make one up._

 

**York, PA — Motel**

Will hurried across the street to the gas station opposite the motel. Gas stations meant convenience stores, which meant food. And Beverly told him that the psychiatrist from Dickenson would come by soon to pick him up.

Mentally, Will reviewed what he knew about the man. Shortly after arriving in Baltimore, he’d begun aggressively Google stalking everyone he met. The FTRB itself sadly, had an appallingly low online profile. But this doctor, Dr. Lecter, occasionally appeared in the Baltimore society pages, and also had multiple psychiatric articles and publications in his name. It was quite clear he was far more than just some local Pennsylvanian consultant. But to Will, the beginning and end of the man’s significance was that he had a car. For some reason, Jack had forbidden Will from going alone, or taking an escort from the local police.

Beverly told Will to take his time, find somewhere for a quiet dinner with the doctor, and then head over to the slaughterhouse. But Will had no intention of waiting. Sixty seconds after the doctor arrived, they would be gone, dinner be damned. He’d eat in the car, or not at all.

He wasn’t sure why, or how, but the Boyle killing allowed him for the first time, to _understand_ their taxidermist. Something about the Boyle killer—his inscrutability, his audacity, the sheer appalling purposelessness—had _finally_ brought the taxidermist into focus. _No more. We’re close now, I can feel it. We can stop him, help him, free him and his daughter from the darkness which has overtaken them._

Entering the store, Will quickly scanned the contents. Long experience led him to immediately disregard the ‘HOT FOOD’ stand. The wait would be long, and the quality far worse than the prepackaged stuff. The muffuletta’s and po’boys of New Orleans this was not. He grabbed a basket and started walking quickly up and down the aisles. As he did, he mentally reviewed the evening’s plans.

Bowman and Beverly had come up with a list of Kosher slaughterhouses in the region. Will just pulled the incident map he’d made, mentally inserted the slaughterhouses, and focused immediately on one not far outside of Lancaster. He couldn’t quite say why. It was not the most centrally located, or the most seasonal, or even the one hiring the most Anglos.

Some instinct, however, had restrained Will from conveying this to the others. He simply noted the chosen site’s proximity to their present location, and offered to stop by while the rest of the team did _whatever_ they were doing at the cemetery. It was clear to Will they did not want him. _Of course, it is clear that if they thought my visit might actually produce results, they wouldn’t let me go. But there’s no need to deny them their fantasies of my irrelevance. After all, there’s no harm in going to the slaughterhouse. One way or another, the taxidermist won’t actually be there this evening. Not after Boyle’s body was found._

He found with little surprise, that he had selected food, purchased it, and made his way back outside, entirely without conscious thought. He’d done the same often enough while on patrol in New Orleans. Despite everything, he was glad to be with Jack and the FTRB. For all of Crawford’s gruffness, Will liked the man. For once, he found himself working for a boss he actually respected.

Crossing the street, Will’s thoughts returned to the scene at the stream. The immediate meaning of the tableau was clear—someone wanted to point Jack toward the taxidermist. _But who? And why?_

It was as if there was a dark, malevolent shadow, hovering just out of sight above, beneath the stream, watching and taunting their inadequacies. _It is almost intimate in its presentation. Playful. An invitation, the opening step in a dance. Almost courting._ Will paused in the open door of his hotel room.

 _And no doubt we will see more, in the future. The serpent did not reveal himself simply to merely slip away. He means to be a continuing presence in Jack’s life, to draw him closer, remake him in his own image. But to what end? How did Jack come to have such an admirer, and why does he step forward now? No doubt, it has something to do with the hidden purpose of the FTRB, whatever that is. There could be some type of deviant mind which, upon discovering such an organization, is drawn to taunt it._ Will gave a slight smile, _Talk about terrible survival instincts._

 _But why now? How did I have the fortune, or misfortune to step in at such a time?_ He felt like he was cutting into Jack’s dance. _This can’t be the first overture—can it? The others, Price and Zeller and Beverly, they showed no sign of recognition. Jack too seemed surprised. Or is it all simply a facade for my benefit? After all Will, you have no way of knowing for certain if Jack is on the side of Angels. All you can say, after seeing just a small portion of his domain, is that if he is an Angel, the Devils he hunts must be truly fearsome indeed._

“Will Graham?”

Will realized with some surprise that someone was calling his name. Blinking, he turned away from the open door to his room. In the parking lot a few steps away, he saw a large, expensive looking black car that had not been there before, and in front of it stood a man looking quizzically in the moonlight. A tall man, physically commanding, yet with a soft elegance, entirely unlike Jack’s imposing demeanor. A moonlit man, attired in navy, red and tweed, holding a blue insulated bag in one hand, car keys in the other.

_Oh. Right. The doctor. How long was I standing here?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We edited the name so it's a bit clearer now, opinions welcome! 
> 
> We love feedback, what characters do you like? Want more of, less of?
> 
> Next: Will meets Hannibal!!


	8. Chapter Eight

_My Dearest Dr. Du Maurier:_

_Words cannot express my sorrow that our disagreement last week ended in such vitriol. Out of respect for your insight, wisdom, and our long association, I carefully reconsidered matters. Rather than stand as a cautionary tale, our experience with Dr. Bloom makes me ever more confident that Mr. Graham can be handled safely. I’m sure in time you will come to agree._

_In the immediate future, I ask that you rethink this separation. You and I both know this is not where your heart lies, and the sooner we resume speaking, the better._

_Sincerely,_

_-Dr. Hannibal Lecter_

__

**York, PA — Hotel**

“Good evening,” Will stammered, still disoriented.

The man appeared to be in his late 40s, with alpine features, and pronounced cheekbones. He wore a tweed sports jacket over a dark red sweater and tie, peaking out from underneath a dark navy blue peacoat. “Should we go in?” the man asked, gesturing towards the open door behind Will. With his expensive car and fastidiously perfect blonde hair, he was incongruous in the parking lot of the cheap motel.

“No.” Will firmly replied. “It’s late enough. We should get to the slaughterhouse.”

The man’s dark eyes flickered. “Shouldn’t we best eat? Your colleague, Agent Katz, mentioned you have not yet eaten dinner.” His voice was heavily accented. _Eastern European perhaps?_

“No.” Will firmly closed the room door, and walked towards the passenger side of thecar. “I got something across the street. We can eat it on the way.” From a plastic shopping bag, he pulled out a large box of chocolate frosted Hostess Donettes.

The man looked dubiously at the box in Will’s hands. “I do not think that will be necessary. They are not expecting us until later this evening. Besides,” he indicated his blue thermos bag. “As I expected rather lackluster dining options, I took the liberty of preparing something.”

Now Will was taken aback. _Who cooks a special meal to take on a beat? And if he had that kind of time, why didn’t he just skip it, and get here sooner?_ Will grimaced. _But, I suppose just like the others, he does not consider this evening’s trip important._ Uncertainly, Will replied, “That's very, um, thoughtful? Maybe if we finish early, we can eat then? Or we can eat in the car?” Tact fully exhausted, Will returned to his primary concern. “But we really should be going. We need to get there before the next shift starts.”

A note of uncertainty crept into the man's voice. “Agent Katz did not mention anything about shift timing.” Yet, he was unusually unexpressive, his face cold and reserved.

“She didn’t?” Will was surprised. It was the first thing _he’d_ checked. “Well, anyway, we have just enough time to catch the departing workers before they leave."

The psychiatrist simply stared at him for a short time. Finally, he gave a small smile, "As you say, we'd best be going. You can eat in the car."

Will shrugged. _If that’s what it takes to get you to drive._ Tucking the box of Donettes away for later, he opened the car door, and slipped inside. He immediately felt out of place. The seats were covered in cream-colored leather, the dashboard paneled in brown lacquered wood. Even the carpeting was deep, rich and luscious. It was not simply the luxury of the space that unsettled Will. It was spotlessly, surreally clean. No mud on the floor, no pet hair, even the cup holders were immaculate, no change or gum wrappers. It looked like a new car, yet it didn’t smell new, missing that acrid scent. If anything, it smelled faintly of shampoo. _Was this some sort of thing rich people did?_

The man slid into the driver’s seat and turned. He had a glint in his eye Will did not care for, like a man appraising a particularly tasty cabbage at market. The man frowned. “Haven’t you more equipment to bring?”

Will looked down, and quickly patted his pockets. _Phone, notebook, pencil, camera, holster, all there._ “No.” he shook his head.

The man looked at him for a moment longer, before turning to his blue bag. “Very well.” Will felt like he’d just been returned to the market shelf. Opening the blue bag, he carefully extracted a glass pyrex container, and silverware. He passed both to Will. “A little pasta _all Gricia_ to start the evening.” He closed the bag and tucked it away on the backseat, before starting the car and pulling out into the road.

Will turned to the still warm container on his lap. Opening it, he saw what appeared to be some sort of spaghetti with _bacon shavings?_ Being extra careful not to spill, he took a bite, and was pleasantly surprised by the intense, smokey flavor of… _yup, bacon._ “Mhmm…delicious. Thank you.” Will mumbled between bites.

“My pleasure.” There was just the briefest hint of a smile. “I must say, I was very impressed by your deportment at Dickenson.”

Will grunted, continuing to eat. He had to force himself to eat slowly. After all, it would be at least 30 minutes before they arrived. _No sense in making myself sick, and this is surprisingly good for something that sat in a container._

The man continued, his tone deadly calm, “Seeing death, so close, leaves its mark. Despite my time as a surgeon, I cannot help but feel a certain visceral response.”

 _Where is this going?_ Will thought, waiting for the doctor to get to the point. _This bacon is really good. I don’t think I’ve had bacon this good in a while. Maybe he buys the fancy kind, not the store brand._

There was a momentary pause. Finally, the doctor asked, “So, how did you come to find yourself in the FBI?”

“Fate and circumstance.” Will glibly replied, around another mouthful of pasta. A brief silence came over the car, broken only by Will’s thoughtful mastication.

The psychiatrist spoke again, trying a different tact. “I gather we are to perform some routine interviews?”

Will frowned, he supposed if the man _insisted_ on talking, at least they could talk about the relevant case. “Mhmm, the throat was cut using _Shechita_.”

The man nodded, his face impassive. “Interesting choice. Did you know, in the Jewish tradition, the blood is said to contain the soul of the animal?”

Will grunted in affirmation.

“So, if I may ask, what are your odds that this little excision results in us finding the killer?”

“At the slaughterhouse itself?” Will almost chuckled. “None at all. But do you have any other leads?” The psychiatrist did not respond. “Didn’t think so.” Will concluded.

 

**Small Town Near York, PA — Country Road**

Beverly swerved suddenly as a car pulled out from a hidden drive. _It was like the siren and strobes made people stupid._ Normally she enjoyed driving down country roads. Part of her appreciated the rolling countryside passing by her window, seemingly endlessly off to either side. Farmhouses and small roadside storefronts occasionally zipped by, and there were even a few tractors in the field. _Unfortunately,_ Beverly thought, carefully pulling back into the right lane, _this road was never meant for an SUV going 60. Lights or no lights._

She briefly glanced at the GPS, and swore under her breath. _Even at 60, we’re still half an hour out. I don’t dare go faster, and it’s already dark. After what we found at the river, somehow I doubt Jack’s willing to wait until morning._ _Why couldn’t the detectives have just called us six hours earlier, when they first found Boyle?_

She glanced over at Jack, who was intently studying a map, making occasional annotations on the folded paper surface. _At least all this has him distracted from the Will Graham problem. Poor kid._ Behind her, she could hear Alana quietly talking with Bowman on the phone, getting an update on media coverage.

Beverly supposed she shouldn’t be surprised some tabloid hack had taken an interest in the Boyle case. Still, it grated. As a general rule, the FTRB strenuously avoided reporters. Even when the coverage didn’t tip off their adversaries, it complicated relationships with local law enforcement. _Here’s hoping Lounds gets bored and goes back to celebrity gossip and cancer cures._

An insistent buzzing jerked her attention. _Spurgen, but not the emergency line, thank God._

“Crawford,” Jack barked, putting the phone on speaker, “with Katz and Bloom. We’re en route.”

“Spurgen here, with Thompson, Langton, and King. We were delayed liaising with the local PD.”

“How bad?” Jack grunted.

“Active stupid, but we’ve seen worse. Best keep them on the perimeter. Keep out casual interlopers, at least, no more than that. No use putting them on the line. They’d be tripwires at best.”

Beverly swore under her breath as she sharply swerved to avoid an oncoming car. _What is about country roads that make people drift!_

Spurgen continued, “Unfortunately, discretion’s right out. Locals are making a big deal, press release, everything. Got a small crowd out front. Thompson and Langton took a look.”

“I’d make a redneck joke, but I _are_ one.” Thompson quipped, in an exaggerated drawl. “Locals’re for the excitement, most interesting thing since county fair ’n all.” Thompson abruptly dropped back into his usual clipped cadence. “But mostly scared and concerned. Place like this, loss of a kid hits hard. And, place like this, figure many will be armed.”

Langton cut in. “Some of them did tours recently, you can tell from the eyes. If shit hits the fan, we can expect irregulars trying to pitch in. And nothing we can say that’s going to make them go home. If you or Spurgen approach them right, solider to solider, ‘spect they’d respond well. Might even do some good. Can’t be me; Not respectable enough.”

“Spurgen?” Jack inquired.

“Haven’t talked to them yet. Haven’t talked to anyone. I’ve been stuck ‘briefing’ local VIPs. You’ll have to do some of that too when you get here.”

Jack scowled. “If I wanted to be briefing idiots all day, I’d be a congressional liaison on the Hill. When we break, talk to them. Thompson, anything else?”

“Reporters. Half dozen, not local. Clothes all wrong.”

“Bomb squad?”

“No good,” Megan King said, bitterly. “Shit training. Shit experience. Shit attitude. Think they know everything, and won’t let no _woman_ tell them otherwise. Keep them well out of it, unless you _want_ something to explode.”

Jack sighed, “Spurgen, anything else?”

“Still fighting for the extra floodlights. I played bad cop, you can play worse cop.”

Jack made a note. “What is the situation with the local authorities?”

“Mayor’s here. Police chief too. Mayor’s former service, likely Vietnam from his age. Chief is not. Having all us vets ‘round, he’s got a chip on his shoulder. City of York and County Sheriff folks are deferring to locals, but that might change when the Sheriff gets here.”

“Noted. I’ll do the meeting and let you and Katz get to work. McCusker can sample the crowd. Katz, what’s the ETA?”

Beverly glanced at the SUV’s GPS unit. “About 15 minutes.”

“Any sign of trouble?” Jack asked.

“Not yet,” Spurgen responded. “But the night’s still young. And it is a _big_ perimeter.”

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack! Almost forgot to get this weeks posting out. Meds change up--pretty much has had me knocked flat all day. Writing has been hard.
> 
> Thank you for reading! and let me know your thoughts in the comments! How do people feel about posting lengths? Longer, shorter? 
> 
> Next week: Will investigates the slaughter house and the FTRB set up shop at the cemetery.


	9. Chapter Nine

**_Tactical Team White Board_ **

_Price and McCusker are trying to put together a trivia team, who’s in?_  
_Who’s up for barhopping this Friday? —Willingham and Langton_  
_Anyone want to start a game of Assassins? — King_  
_Att: Thompson is running the STD prevention class for the retirees._  
_Continuing Ed Option for the week: Whiskey Tasting with Casey_

 

**Small Town Near York, PA — Cemetery**

Beverly let out a low whistle as she crested the hill. “Thompson wasn’t joking.” In the distance a constellation of blinding lights stood out against the countryside’s still darkness. Growing closer, more details became clear. A perimeter was imperfectly illuminated, patrols identifiable by the slow bobbing of handheld lights. A dozen cars and vans were haphazardly parked on the grass, and no doubt more hidden by the darkness. Small figures moved about, drifting in and out of circles of light. And in the background, stood the omnipresent neat rows of white and grey headstones, half visible in the darkness. Finally, across the turn-off into the cemetery, a small crowd of onlookers remained, undeterred by the darkness. Behind them a small, rocky hill jutted out of the placid countryside, jagged, dark, and forbidding against the night sky.

_And, I’m sure Spurgen has a plan to murder everyone here if necessary. I’m soo glad my job doesn’t require that level of professional paranoia. It seems exhausting._

Turning into the cemetery driveway, she slowed, pulling. A York County patrol car was parked across the drive as an impromptu barricade. The running headlights of a second patrol car, parked nearby, illuminated the road.

_Time to meet York County’s finest._ She could just see Jack’s frown in the half light. Despite the impressive display, to her trained eye, much of it was clearly just for show. Too many officers moved aimlessly. Too many were focused on their phones and not their surroundings. Too many chatting with each other, or worse still, onlookers.

“At least they’re making an effort?” Beverly offered, half-heartedly.

“I’ll keep that in mind when we take casualties,” Jack growled.

They waited. None of the officers in view seemed in a hurry to get to them. Finally an officer in a large tan campaign hat sauntered over. As he drew closer, Beverly noted a shiny York County Sheriff’s Office badge pinned to his tan uniform.

Finally reaching the SUV, the officer peered inside, first looking at Beverly, then at Jack, then Alana, before turning back to Beverly. “Can I help you ma’am?” he asked dubiously.

“Beverly Katz, FTRB,” she replied, wearily.

He stared at her blankly.

“F-B-I,” Beverly continued after a pause, emphasizing each letter.

He continued to look at her, his blank expression slowly morphing into one of suspicion. “Might you happen to have some identification, ma’am? This is a secure area, you know.”

With her left hand, Beverly removed the FBI badge from the lanyard around her neck and handed it to him. With her right hand, she made calming gestures at Jack.

The man peered at her ID like a bouncer at a college town bar.

Finally, he looked up. “I need to check the list. Stay here.” He turned to leave.

Beverly glanced at Jack, gave up, and leaned back in her seat. She rolled her eyes, awaiting the coming storm. _Just as well let him blow off some steam now…_

 

**Lancaster PA — Slaughter House**

As they grew nearer and nearer to the slaughterhouse, Will felt lighter, exhilarated. All his life, he’d been shunted aside, given the run-around. Now, whatever else might have happened, whatever ever else might follow, he was free. Free to carry the investigation forward. Free from the oversight and meddling of Jack, Beverly, Zeller, or anyone else. The slaughterhouse was the key, he could feel it. The key to finding the taxidermist, finding the girl.

The man with the car was _Doctor Lecter,_ Will reminded himself, _Doctor Lecter, people like it when you remember their name,_ had engaged Will in conversation as they drove. They talked for a short time about this, and that, while Will finished the dinner _Doctor Lecter_ had so thoughtfully brought along. However, the conversation petered out about 10 minutes into their journey, and while Will offered, _Doctor Lecter_ did not want to pull over to could switch places so that he could eat as well.

Staring out the window, Will caught glimpses of carefully tended fields and gently rolling hills, briefly illuminated in the headlights before fading back into shadow. A part of Will wanted to simply shut off the lights and fly across the dark road into the night like a ship at sea, racing into the unknown. Suddenly, in the distance, Will caught a glimpse of something else, tall and dark, looming unnaturally above the surrounding country. _The slaughterhouse,_ he thought.

***

Driving past the checkpoint, Beverly cheerfully waved at the deputy sheriff. He glumly waited for her to pass him so he could return the patrol car to its position blocking the road. _He got off easy. Jack’s still back there giving his commander an earful. And least Alana got to bail five minutes ago. ‘Need to inspect the medical facilities’, have to remember that one. I had to sit in the car until the deputy remembered I was there. Probably figured if he let me through, Jack would stop yelling._ She snickered. _Good luck with that!_

Beverly parked a short distance away from the FTRB base camp. It wasn’t hard to find. Well-lit, it was a hundred yards away from the cops, its vehicles carefully parked in a defensive arrangement. As she climbed out of the car, she picked out two dark figures conspicuously standing guard.

As she approached, one of the figures came towards here. She recognized him as Donald Thompson, leader of the second tactical team. Don Thompson was thin, with brownish-red hair, and a wiry mustache, curled and waxed. As he came closer, she saw that, like his colleagues, he wore a simple FBI windbreaker over a black armored vest.

“Is that Jack I hear?” His voice was crisp and clipped, the result of years of masking his native drawl.

Beverly rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Wouldn’t be surprised if the _whole_ county heard. Jack sure tore him a new asshole.”

Don grinned. “York county’s finest.”

Beverly smiled. “It’s probably the first time the sheriff ever saw an Asian woman, a White woman, and a Black man in a car, let alone claiming to be FBI.”

Thompson chuckled, before ironically slipping into a thick drawl, “ _Ye-up_ , things be different out here.” Reverting back, he added, “I don’t think they’re at the point of hiring _women_ yet.”

_God I hate small towns._ Beverly shook her head. _I did not join the FBI to deal with this shit._ “So, what’s the score?”

Thompson snorted. “Spent time dealing with the local Vips. I see why Tom’s so pissed fragging went out of style after Vietnam. I thought _my_ first Captain was bad.” He chuckled again. “Anyway, down to business. Rankin’s team is _en route_ with Price, Zeller, and McCusker. They should be here in…” He checked his Timex watch. “Twenty minutes or so, we’ll move the cars then. Spurgen’s off talking to the local irregulars, should be back by then. Until then, why doncha walk around, get the lay of the land? Oh, and grab some chow, cooler’s by the trauma van. I figure once everyone else gets here, pickings will get slim.”

***

Walking across the cold concrete parking lot, Will could feel the beating palpitations of his heart. It was as if the fog lifted from his senses, and revealed waves of sensations, slamming across him like breakers on the rocks.

The slaughterhouse office was just where Beverly said it would be. He entered without knocking. Glancing around, he quickly took in the room’s measure. _Depressingly small, dark and drab, unremarkable furniture blending into unremarkable walls, inhabited by weary shadows, long-since remade in the image of the cogs of their paymaster’s desires, presently in the form of an unremarkable woman, small, approaching late middle age, face marked by deep worry lines and clearly not expecting two strange men to enter unannounced._

The woman made noises of greeting and alarm.

Will thought quickly. He needed something more assertive than his usual manner, and fell back on the pattern most familiar to him.

“William Graham, FBI,” a firm voice levelly replied, channeling his former partner, Leroy Bolet.

“Oh.” The woman said, color draining from her face. “You’re early. I suppose I was expecting someone, um, taller. You’re not going to take too long, are you?”

“As long as it takes.” The firm voice brusquely replied. “We believe one of your employees may have seen something. He would have a daughter, dark brown hair, blue eyes, around 19-20. Hunter, interests in handicrafts and taxidermy.”

The woman gave him a baffled look. “I don’t really speak with them. But you’re welcome to look through the files?” She offered, gesturing vaguely to a seemingly endless wall of filing cabinets.

“We will,” the voice continued, undeterred. “Thank you,” Will added, hesitantly before catching himself. Bolet’s voice reasserted itself. “We will also be speaking with the departing shift. Please assemble them somewhere convenient.”

She glanced nervously from Will, to the man standing behind him, and back to Will. “I can’t let you onto the floor. Health rules. But if you wait here, I’ll set up one of the conference rooms.”

Will nodded. If he was a health inspector, he would have been offended, but right now he’d take what he could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, we're getting ready for next weeks posting, as we're traveling next week. Thank you for the outpouring of support last week! Your comments were great! We really appreciate it!
> 
> Also, I got engaged!!!
> 
> Next week: Final preparations!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traveling yesterday, so shorter chapter this week, but here it is! I do want to note that any views expressed by characters are not representative of authors views, just so we're all clear.
> 
> Important question, do people want longer chapters and less frequent updates? Thoughts?

_Jack:_  
_Here’s the list for the teams after the latest reorg. Here’s hoping this lasts more than six months._  
_-Tom_

  
_Team 1:_  
_John Rankin — Team Leader/Heavy Weapons_  
_Jane Willingham — Recon/Sniper_  
_Philip Langton — Spotter_  
_Mark Sutton — Mechanic/Entry/Driver_  
_Alex Brooks — Demolitions_  
_Shannon Owens — Medic_

  
_Team 2:_  
_Donald Thompson — Team Leader/Doctor_  
_Brandon Ward — Recon/Sniper_  
_Martin Garcia — Spotter/Special Tactics_  
_Derek Rogers — Entry_  
_Robert Cracknell — Driver/Mechanic/Heavy Weapons_  
_Megan King — Demolitions_

 

**Small Town Near York, PA — Cemetery**

Kurt Spurgen slowly sized up the half-dozen men as he crossed the street. To the trained eye, they stood out like Jack at a PTA meeting. They were all in their twenties or thirties, with short hair and powerful physiques, grouped apart from the other onlookers. They talked in low voices, their eyes guarded, watching their surroundings warily. All wore holsters on their belts, along with other odds and ends such as knives, radios and smartphones. The pickup trucks behind them were, unlike local law enforcement’s vehicles, parked carefully in a neat row, facing the road. Drawing closer, Kurt was unsurprised to see gun racks on each truck, and a mix of Army and Marine bumper stickers confirming the obvious.

As he reached the other side of the road, a few turned their gaze, appraising him cautiously. A young man with short-cropped blonde hair stepped forward. He wore a plaid shirt, buttoned against the evening’s chill, worn jeans, and sturdy hiking boots. “Can I help you officer?”

“Kurt Spurgen, FBI.”

The young man gauged Kurt warily. “You got an ID, or something, FBI Agent Spurgen? ‘Cause everyone else here’s running around with a name tag, and a badge with a number, and a big patch saying where they’re from. But you don’t have none of that. Just a black uniform with a velcro patch that says PO-LICE.”

Kurt chuckled. “Can’t fault you for asking. Here,” With slow deliberate movements, he fished his ID out from under his vest, unclipped it from its lanyard, and passed it over. “You’re the first to ask today—which is all I’ll say about the boys in blue over there.” He gestured with his head.

The young man just shook his head. Taking Kurt’s ID, the man studied it carefully, before handing it back. “Agent Kurt Spurgen it is. I’m Peter.”

“What unit were you with?” Kurt lifted his chin, appraising the man.

“Army, 82 Airborne, got out in ’07. Reese here,” Peter gestured over his shoulder towards a younger man with curly dark brown hair. “He’s not so smart, he went into the Marines and got out in ’10. You?”

“Army, got out in ’05 after it was made clear that no matter what I did, I wasn’t gonna escape the Pentagon. Life’s just too short for that shit.”

Peter eyed him curiously. “How’d a nice Army boy like you wind up with the Feds?”

A wide grin crossed Kurt’s face. “‘Cause where I am now, they don’t care about PT scores or VD classes. As long as we’re good operators, and discreet.” Kurt watched Peter’s intrigued reaction, with interest. Only a fellow vet could truly appreciate the FTRB’s wondrous freedom from bureaucratic bullshit. It made a great recruiting pitch.

Peter raised a skeptical eye. “How ‘come I never heard of you? This _FTRB?_ ”

“Like I said, discreet. We keep a low profile, let others take credit where possible. My boss doesn’t care about the headlines, as long as the job gets done.”

Peter seemed unconvinced. “Not many of those out there.” He hummed in approval.

“Yup. Strangely, the Army pushed him out back during the Clinton years. Can’t _imagine_ why.”

The nearby veterans chuckled, lowly. “So, what’s this all about?” Reese cut in.

“Well, we’d put the word out that if anyone saw a case like the Nichols girl, they should give us a _quiet_ word. Instead someone from local PD sold photos to an online rag. And then, when we asked the York Sheriff boys to secure the graveyard so we could have a _quiet_ look in connection to the Boyle killings, they went and did a press conference.” Kurt frowned. It was stuff like this that made him wonder why people even showed up to work.

Reese peered over at Kurt’s holstered weapon. “Nice piece, can I ask where you got it? Doesn’t look like the usual sort of things cops carry.”

“Actually, got this one off an ATF agent we busted for gun running.” Kurt glibly responded. _An ATF agent trying to breech our facility._

Laughter again. Another man chimed in. “I missed that one.”

“Again, low profile. Makes it easier to get away with stuff like that.” Kurt glanced down at his holster.

“So, what brings you over here, anyway?” Peter asked.

“Wanted to say hello, seemed the neighborly thing to do. And reassure you that we’re not here to cause local trouble, or to ask questions about item #2 on that gun rack yonder, _that you really should get out of sight before any of the local guys realize what they’re looking at._ ”

Reese’s head whipped around, to the gun rack behind him, to Kurt, and back to his gun rack. There were chuckles, and someone even whistled. Peter just winced. Without a word, and looking rather sheepish, Reese scurried back to the truck.

Amused, Kurt turned back to Peter, and smiled inquisitively. “So, seen or heard anything interesting?”

 

**Lancaster, PA — Slaughter House**

Standing in the corner of the small, drab conference room, Will busied himself with his notes. A stillness had washed over him, an anticipation. The force driving him pushed at the edges of his mind. Yet, the urgency had receded, leaving him fully awake, fully aware, fully in the moment.

With effort, he forced himself to ignore the mass of tired, disgruntled workers slowly filtering into the room. Time enough for them once all were present. It would not do to repeat himself. Will had enough self-awareness to know that interacting with people was hard for him, and Bolet could only carry him so far. The best he could hope for was ‘professional detachment’. The term more often used in the NOPD break room was ‘deranged’.

Sensing a slight change of tenor in the room, he looked up. The unremarkable woman had just ushered in a group of employees and, instead of leaving to fetch another, had instead taken up a post by the door. _Must be the last of them._ Will suppressed an amused smile as he saw the woman take out a notepad and pen. _Seems someone in corporate wants a report. I shall have to give them a memorable performance._

He turned his gaze next to the gathered workers, his eyes flitting from one to another as he took on the tenor of the room. _Nervousness, anger, some measure of guilt, all to be expected. All of them wary, all of them confused, and all of them weary._

He glanced back at _Dr. Lecter_ , who was standing in the back of the room. The doctor gave Will a small, reassuring smile. Feeling a boost of confidence, Will took a deep breath, and stepped forward.

“My name is William Graham, FBI. We are investigating the recent murders, Elise Nichols at Dickenson, Cassie Boyle today, and the others before them.”

Immediately murmurs and whispers filled the room. Will briefly paused, scanning the room for anomalous reactions, but finding none. He did not enjoy lying to them. Attributing Cassie Boyle’s death to the tender taxidermist felt _unclean._ But he needed to break through their hostility, and the quickest way to do so was through their emotions. And even if the taxidermist did not kill Cassie Boyle, she would be fresh in their minds and had the benefit of being local. _Besides, what weight has such a small lie, if it brings peace to the taxidermist, and safety to his beloved?_

Murmurs calmed, Will continued. “Now, I don’t think anyone here did it. And I don’t care about immigration status, or about anything else you might or might not have done. But I do think that someone else who works here, or someone who used to work here, might have seen something this morning. From the description, he would be middle aged, in his 40’s or 50’s—and he would have a daughter. We think the killer might have also realized he was there. We just need to find him, get him to safety before the killer finds him.” The energy in the room changed. Less impatient, more eager. More inclined to render aid. “I’m going to ask a few question. Raise your hand if you think you’ve got something.”

***

 _What’s all this fuss about anyway? Aren’t we just here to look at the cemetery? Now every farmer and his mother is out tonight!_ Brian Zeller grumbled as he climbed out of the SUV. With the exception of Jack and a couple of the tactical team members, everyone was gathered in a circle. _At least we have our own little camp, instead of being stuck with the local officers._

Squinting in the darkness, Brian carefully made his way to the group, incongruously unlit, unlike the surrounding area. _Jack and his stupid Army shit. What’s the point of getting all tactical? With all the bright lights everywhere else, our night vision is fucked anyway._ He shook his head. _Why do I always get dragged along on Jack’s little adventures anyway, while Lloyd gets to stay in? Shouldn’t seniority count for something? I bet he’s playing video games on the big display again._

Spurgen’s voice drew everyone to attention. He was about Jack’s age, had short brown buzz cut hair, and like all of the tactical team members, _intense._ “Let’s get started. First, support…” _Great. Doesn’t concern me. Heard this a million times before._ Brian looked down, inspecting the grass. His hand itched to reach for his phone, but he didn’t want another lecture from Jack about ‘vigilance and decorum’. The last one was still ringing in his ears.

Spurgen was still plodding on. _“_ This batch of LEOs don’t appear to be hostile, but definitely has a bad case of active stupid. We’re using them for perimeter…” _Blah blah blah local bomb squad is being sent on a wild goose chase, because we don’t trust them not to blow us up. Ookay. That’s a new one. Blah blah blah…armed locals with guns who want to help?_ Brian snapped back to focus.

Spurgen continued, “If the balloon goes up, I think I’ve got them convinced to check with us before doing a charge of the pickup brigade, but you never know. They’re using commercial radios, channel fifteen.”

_Da fuck? Is Graham’s crazy infectious?_

Spurgen droned on, “Up next: assignments.” _Oh goody, hopefully it’s our turn._ “Rankin will lead the sweep. Demo…” _Nope._ Brian shifted his weight. “Thompson has headquarters security…” Brian faded out. _blah blah “…_ Willingham and Langton go climb the hill…” _blah blah “…_ Bloom’s manning the phone and trauma van…” _blah blah blah “…_ Chow by the trauma van…” _, Sweet! First stop after the briefing. “_ head is over in the caretaker’s building. Buddy system applies. Questions?”

Brian raised his hand, “Uh…aren’t we going a little overboard? Couldn’t we just go down right now and check out the monument site?”

Spurgen shot glare and looked back at the team. “Any _other_ questions?”

“Rules of engagement?” asked Rankin.

“Don’t kill anyone if you can help it. But don’t put yourself at risk. Anything else? No?” He scanned the group. “Good. Remember, get the vampires before they get you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, Hannibal POV, yay! It's always a difficult line, I love writing Hannibal, but my beta readers said to cut back on the number of Hannibal scenes, cause he works best in smaller doses. Anyway, see you next Thursday!
> 
> Comments and feedback welcome!


	11. Chapter Eleven

_Report on the Loss of St. Louis Task Force 1: Date [Redacted]_

_“…emphasize, once again, our adversaries’ natural advantages in nighttime operations. Accordingly, action between the hours of dusk and dawn should be strenuously avoided. If this is not possible, only decisive action and overwhelming force can be expected to prevent catastrophe.”_

 

**Small Town Near York, PA — Cemetery**

Brian Zeller hung back with Jimmy Price while the black-clad tactical team purposefully scurried about. _Yes! No one’s given me anything to do, and Spurgen’s wandering off! Nap time!_

A harried looking Megan King strode towards them. She was tall and slender, her long blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her usually irreverent face was set into an impatient frown. “Pinky and the Brain!” She shouted, “Didn’t you see the locals? The cops? The media? Or were you both napping on your way in?” _Hey! I didn’t get much sleep last night! “_ There is no way to do this without being noticed. So we put on a show of force and hope that it stalls them long enough for us to get in and get out. Oh, and you lot are on camera duty. McCusker’s supervising.”

“Camera duty?!” Brian was horrified. _God dammit._ Brian knew it was a critical job, but it was just sitting in a steel box for hours, staring at nothing, with the stress that if something did pop up, a five second delay in noticing could literally be a matter of life and death. Even if you really, _really_ needed to pee, who the hell would care at the funeral?

“I don’t get to have a gun and look all scary?” Jimmy grumbled. “I’ve been hitting the range! I’m probably a better shot than those York County guys.”

“I thought we were looking at where the monument came from!” Brian whined.

King rolled her eyes in derision. “You’re welcome to look now, if you’d like, but you don’t you think you should wait for us to finish checking for booby traps?”

*******

Life was good for Philip Langton. _I’m in the states, no Sharia law! All the cold beer, TV, and co-eds I can eat!_ Army had been fun, same with the Rangers, but spec ops had been too serious for him. Blackwater was fun while it lasted, but this stuff with Crawford was the best. _And none of that standard issue shit either! Fuck the ATF, we use what we want, when we want, and if we can’t find it, well, we got Casey for that. And I get minions!_ He looked out the from behind the passenger seat of the Sheriff’s SUV, stretched out and put his feet up on the dashboard. _How long is this going to take?_ He thought, watching a haggard group of local officers in mixed uniforms loudly made their way up the hill, their flashlights cutting beams through the night. _Out of breath already? I bet they don’t even lift._

He pulled down the visor and flipped open the mirror, checking out his white teeth and gums in the reflection. He took a moment to admire his short sandy blonde hair and neatly trimmed beard and mustache. _Maybe I should get another tattoo…_

From the hill, a dart of movement caught his eye. He could just make out a thin figure against the night sky. Whoever it was, they were clearly trying to work their way down the side of the hill without being seen. Langton grinned, stretched, and got out of the car. _Sucks to be you, motherfucker._

***

_Good subordinates are a Godsend._ Jack thought, grabbing a ham sandwich out of the cooler. Nearby, Thompson, Rankin, and Spurgen were pouring over a map of the cemetery, set up on a plastic table Thompson had dragged out of the back of a van.

The radio next to the van crackled. Jack could hear Jane Willingham’s voice. “Base this is Eagle 1, base this is Eagle 1, over.”

Jack picked up the radio. “Base here, over.”

“The vets were right. Found a little birdie on the hill. Eagle 2 is bringing him in. Over.”

“Roger. Base out.” Jack frowned. _Of course there is._

_***_

A few minutes later a York county squad came into view. A squat officer got out, and hauled a handcuffed, weedy looking man out of the backseat. “He had this with him,” Langton said, getting out of the other side of the squad car, and removing an assortment of photography equipment from the trunk.

“I’m the press, man!” The weedy man shouted. “I know my rights!”

“Where are your credentials?!” Jack bellowed back. He did not have time for this.

The man paled, his eyes grew wide, cowed by Jack’s force. “Uh…uh…I’m a freelancer. Look, it ain’t no crime to take pictures of a cemetery.”

“You are hampering a federal investigation!”

“Yo man, I just answered an ad on Craigslist!”

Energy spent, Jack sighed and turned to Langton, “What did he get?”

Langton flipped through the camera. “A couple hundred pics here, boss. Shots of the crime scene, some of the York county guys, shit, here’s some of us too.”

Jack turned on the ‘freelance’ photographer. “We need you to delete these.” He said, his tone terse.

“Delete these? You can’t make me! I know my rights! Plus I already uploaded them all!” The man thrust out his chin defiantly. “You heard of the cloud?” He shouted.

_Shit._ Jack closed his eyes for a moment. _I really do not have time for this._

“We found something!” The radio crackled to life. “Uh, over.”

Only decades of experience allowed Jack to keep a look of abject horror off his face.

Another voice cut across the radio, “This is Chief Johnson of the Dover PD, please identify. Over.”

“This is Sheriff Clark with the county sheriff’s office, we found some explosive residue. Over.”

_What._

“Where are you? Over.” The radio responded.

“We’re by the east end, by the ring road! I think it’s one of those I-E-D’s the Fed’s warned about. Over.” _What. That was an excuse to keep them busy!_

Jack forced his face to remain impassive. “Take him away,” he gestured to the weedy man. “We’ll deal with him later.”

“Hey! You can’t do that!” The man shouted back as Jack trudged away to the command van. “I was just taking photos, man!”

Jack ignored him, and picking up the radio, flipped over to his team’s channel. “Alright, you heard them. Don’t jostle their elbow. Let the _experts_ from the county sheriff’s office handle it. Over.” _And stay well away—we don’t want to get caught in the blast if they misstep._  

**Lancaster, PA — Slaughter House**

Hannibal watched the young Will Graham’s performance with rapt fascination. Based on Alana’s reports, and his own prior observations at Dickenson, he had believed with absolute certainty that he had a full understanding of the man’s character, motivations, and likely behavior. Hannibal could not remember the last time he was so utterly mistaken.

He could not be more pleased.

Oh, Hannibal quickly ascertained roughly what happened. That the mask young Will allowed Alana and his coworkers to see was just that, a mask. Now, freed from the shackles of their gaze, of their expectations, the man soared free.

Hannibal was honored to have the privilege to see it.

Of course, that did not mean Hannibal felt as if he understood the man, no, far from it. It was clear that Will’s mind contained a breadth and depth that Will himself did not fully appreciate. Indeed, Hannibal could not recall having ever met a man so blessed, and yet still remained so capable of projecting an outward appearance of sanity.

Simply standing behind the young man, watching him work the crowd, was an experience Hannibal would gladly have traveled much further than Lancaster to observe.

The young man had initially adopted the pretense of a curt, narrowly focused investigator to flagrantly and marvelously play to the sympathies of the crowd. But the façade was expeditiously abandoned when it became an impediment to his purpose.

Now the young man danced, leaping from question to question at times without even waiting for a full answer, discerning all he needed from a few scant words or even just from a momentary, unguarded reaction. Through it all, he raced unerringly towards his goal.

_I had thought,_ Hannibal mused, _even with my guidance, identifying Hobbs might occupy Will for a few weeks, perhaps even a month. Instead, he may get there as early as tomorrow morning._

Surreptitiously, Hannibal slipped his phone out of his pocket, and sent a brief message.

Almost before he finished, Will abruptly cut-off mid-question. “Thank you. That will be all. You are all free to go. Thank you all for your cooperation. You may well just have saved a life, many lives.”

Will waited impatiently for the group to filter out of the room, and for the nervous secretary to shut the door behind her. Room empty, the young man turned to Hannibal. There was a glow about his delicate features, invigorated and thrilled by the chase. His eyes were dark and clear, not unlike a polished sapphires.

“You dismissed them.” Hannibal observed in a level tone. “Are you sure you have enough information? You don’t want to ask more questions?”

Will shook his head, which only further messed up his already tousled dark brown hair. “15 have daughters. Half a dozen mentioned hunting, the outdoors. One mention of taxidermy. Garret Jacob Hobbs. Supposed to be here tonight, out sick. Has a daughter. Right age, height, hair color, eye color. Abigail. Abigail Hobbs. _That’s_ the one. _That’s_ who he kills for.”

Dr. Lecter could not hide the sudden surprise and admiration from his eyes. _It seems I underestimate him again. I appear to be making a habit of it._

A small, sheepish smile flickered across Will’s face. Averting his gaze, the young man almost coyly asked, “What do you think about making a house call?”

Hannibal remained impassive, hiding jolt of consternation. _And yet again, it seems I will have to act quickly._

“Hobbs’ file should be in the office,” Will continued, looking up, eager and ready. “I’ll get it. Meet you at the car.”

Waiting until Will had safely left the room, Hannibal took out his phone once more. Unbidden Bedelia’s warning rose to the surface of his mind, _‘…such impulses can lead to recklessness…’_ _Reckless indeed,_ he thought with a wry smile. He sent another, more urgent message: _They’re coming. Now._

Only later, much later, did Hannibal realize that he never even considered suggesting they wait for Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to make clear again that the views held by the characters are not at all reflective of author's views. (cough cough Langton cough Yeah...he has substantial toxic masculinity issues)
> 
> We had a long debate on if we even included a Garret Jacob Hobbs plot line, but ultimately felt that it was critical to Abigail as a character. And we really wanted an Abigail. So, I hope you guys enjoy the spin we've put on it.
> 
> I hope you like our Hannibal as much as I have fun writing him. Next week, the shit hits the fan! Thank you for reading, as always, comments welcome!


	12. Chapter Twelve

_“…It should be noted that our adversaries have shown remarkable abilities to manipulate perceptions and even the memories of their victims. The counter measure is simple. Never go anywhere without a buddy you can trust.” — Excerpt from FTRB Training Materials_

 

**Small Town Near York, PA — Cemetery**

Jack scowled as he watched Thompson add yet another angry dot to their map of the cemetery. No matter how long he’d worked in the FBI, no matter how many years, things like the Boyle girl still got to him. _First the locals’ idiocy, then the damn photographer, and now this._ He’d joined the FTRB to keep people _safe_ from the darkness. This? This was a charade, and he was playing the fool. A part of him yearned to rush in, take command, bring order to the chaos. But, he suppressed that impulse. He needed to be ready incase all this was a distraction for something more.

“Coffee?”

Wordlessly, Jack turned, and accepted the proffered thermos from Kurt Spurgen. _At least we’re all old Army hands,_ Jack thought surveying his colleagues at the command post. Thompson’s set up was elegant in its simplicity. A couple of sturdy grey folding chairs, and a few radios, all covered in a red light emanating from a small field lantern, bathing everything in a hellish, unearthly glow. They were surrounded by the defensible ring formed by neatly parked, discreetly armored vehicles. More than enough to get the job done, and without any needless electronic distractions.

“Found another one! Over.” A voice crackled over the police band.

“How many now? Over.” Another voice chimed in.

“Uh…eight I think? No, nine now! Wait, ten, O’Malley found another! Oh, over.”

Jack could feel his teeth grinding. _With all the media attention…if one of those clowns gets killed, the ensuing shit storm going to take six months to clean up. If we were going to be attacked, it should have already happened. Maybe Graham was right, this is about humiliation. Some sick bastard’s idea of a joke._

“How many have we found in our area?” Rankin asked, returning from the cooler, sandwich in hand.

“King found five so far.” Thompson replied, quickly tallying up the black marks. “Checked two, both false alarms, but who knows ‘bout the others.” _All it takes is one…_

“What’s the ETA?” asked Spurgen, his face set in a tense grimace.

“At this rate? I don’t think we’re getting out of here before dawn.” Thompson lamented, putting the black sharpie down.

Jack seethed. He wouldn’t put it past this asshole to include just one real bomb amidst the fakes.

“They don’t gain anything keeping us here after dawn.” Rankin frowned. “Unless we’ve somehow stumbled into something _other than_ the usual vampires.”

“Hemophages.” Jack automatically corrected.

Spurgen’s eyes flashed in alarm. “If that’s a possibility, we need to pull out soon. As is, we’re only marginally equipped to fight _them_.”

The radio cut them off, “Guess that one was a dud!” A voice shouted, “Good thing too, or Dudley here would have lost a foot or worse! Over!”

Thompson shook his head and groaned. “Where do they find these people?”

Jack realized his knuckles were getting sore from clenching his fists. Hearing the sound of running footsteps, he looked up from the map. Dr. Bloom was rushing towards them, pale faced and holding the phone, her usually pristinely curled dark hair surprisingly disheveled. _What now?_

She spoke quickly, running a hand through her hair, clearly upset. “It’s Dr. Lecter. There’s a problem.”

**Lancaster, PA —The Hobbs House — A Few Minutes Earlier**

Will carefully navigated the SUV up the narrow drive to what he hoped was the home of one Mr. Garret Jacob Hobbs. _I’m glad Dr. Lecter suggested we go back and switch cars. I don’t think his could handle this._

Part of Will knew he should call Jack, rather than personally pursue the lead with Dr. Lecter, but there was no way he could stop now. Oh, if asked to explain later why he pushed forward, he could just chalk it up to exuberance, or concern about potential future victims. But he couldn’t turn back. An ever growing sense of anticipation and purpose building within him drove his ship inexorably forward towards an apotheosis he did not know. Into a storm? Or was it towards port?

This was not the first time he felt so compelled, and each prior occurrence had driven him to moments that profoundly shaped his life. The first time he could remember was in high school. He was sixteen. One night, he was struck with the urge to take a walk in the woods. For no reason he could describe, he wandered off the trail, and soon found an injured hiker laying in shock. The doctors told him the man would have died had Will not found him. Afterwards, he was unable to explain why he was there, or even why he thought to look there. As a thank-you, the hiker insisted on contributing to Will’s college fund.

This was not the last of such events. Later, in the NOPD, a few questions, asked on a whim, broke open a cold case. To his relief, his superiors did not ask how or why he thought to ask those questions, at a routine traffic stop, no less. Instead they promoted him to detective and transferred him to homicide.

Turning a final corner, a modest red brick house came into view, sitting atop a small hill in the middle of a few acres. Seeing the house, Will momentarily struggled to keep control of the car. He had, just for a moment, felt as if he was seeing beyond it, beyond its neat, white trimmed windows, beyond the newly cut lawn flowing down the sides of the hill, beyond the neatly trimmed hedges flanking its front door, beyond the grey sedan parked innocuously in front of the home’s attached two-car garage. For the briefest moment, he thought he saw a dark mass looming overhead, engulfing the house and all those within it.

Reaching the house, Will carefully pulled up, parallel with the grey sedan in front of the car. As he reached to shift the car into park, some instinct compelled him instead to back up, and turn, blocking in both the grey sedan and the front of the garage. Satisfied, Will turned off the car.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Will was almost surprised to see Dr. Lecter sitting next to him. The man eyed Will oddly, with just the barest hint of smile on his face.

“What are you thinking?” Will asked, deliberately not making eye contact as he made one last check of his personal belongings. _Vest, holster, badge, keys, yep, that’s everything._

Will could hear Dr. Lecter lean back in the large passenger sea **t**. “Oh, I find it fascinating to watch the FBI when they aren’t kicking in doors.” Dr. Lecter replied, a note of amusement in his voice.

“Yeah, well, we’re just going to ask a few questions.” Will said, unconvincingly, stepping into the crisp night air.

As he exited the car, Will heard a shout from around the side of the house. He gestured for Dr. Lecter to stay back. Cautiously advancing, he drew his pistol, keeping it pointed safely toward the ground. He was suddenly very aware of his surroundings, the crunch of gravel underneath his shoes, the chaffing of wind against his cheeks—and, most disconcertingly, the lack of a radio connecting him to legions of fellow officers waiting mere minutes away. _No 911 operator can save you now Will, you’re on your own._

Another shout. _Definitely from the side of the house._

He edged along the front of the house, past the hedge, past the brightly colored flowers. Reaching the end, he cautiously peeked around the corner. Before him awaited a yawning chasm into the unknown. An outside stairwell, leading down, and rising from its depths, illumination from an open door, and the growing sounds of an argument. Will continued to creep forward.

“You have to leave! Now!” shouted a young man’s voice.

“This is my house,” pleaded an older man. “You can’t just show up and demand that we have leave! What about my job! My work! We have lives!”

“You’re coming with me! Now!” A younger man repeated, his anger, his frustration, palpable and oppressive under the cold dark sky.

Will found he had reached the bottom of the stairs, next to the open doorway. Will turned into the room. “FBI!” Will shouted, before instinctively throwing himself aside.

A dark object flew out of the door, narrowly missing him, and hitting the side of the stairwell with a crash. _A metal stool,_ some part of Will noted, as he struggled to regain his balance.

As he swung back into the room, the foreboding in the back of Will’s mind reached a crescendo. Three figures met his gaze, as time itself seemed to crystalize in a single, frozen moment.

…A thin man, casually dressed, the dome of his scalp surrounded by faint wisps of grey hair. He stood tall, angry, defiant, protective, wielding a large ornate dagger in his hand…

_Hobbs._

…A young woman, slender and dark haired. Her face a picture of abject horror, as she clutched a dagger of her own. Her bright eyes flitted fearfully, father to adversary…

_Abigail._

…A squat, sturdy, dark-haired man, wearing a broad-shouldered leather jacket. His hair, unkempt, while short in front, ran down the back of his neck, past his collar, nearly to his shoulders. His face was red with rage. He clenched one hand, the other returning from where it had launched the stool, his body turning back to Hobbs…

Will had no idea who this interloper was.

The scene sped forward in Will’s mind, down a dozen, no a hundred different paths. Will charging Hobbs and the stranger in a flurry of lunges and blows, left or right up, down or up, ending with bodies on the floor in infinite permutations. Hobbs rushing towards the interloper, toward him, Hobbs and Will bleeding on the floor. Will firing, firing at Hobbs, missing, hitting the interloper, hitting the girl, passing through the wall hitting a child in the woods half a mile away…and his choice was made for him. Hobbs suddenly lunged backward and stabbed the dagger into his daughter’s clavicle.

Will brought up his pistol, his ears pounding, but the interloper was faster. The unkempt man grabbed Hobbs’ shoulder just as the dagger entered the girl’s neck, pulling Hobbs’ head backwards as his own mouth snapped down. White teeth mixed with deep red as he raggedly tore open Hobbs’ throat. Hobbs falling backwards, thrown, discarded, broken on the floor.

The interloper turned his attention towards Will. Their eyes met, Will’s deep blue meeting the man’s brown. Again, time seemed to freeze. Will’s mind reeled, as if from a blow. The man’s eyes radiated rage, pure animalistic. But whatever Will saw, what the interloper saw was worse. The man seemed to jump, as if from an electric shock, looking at Will, through Will, seeing what, Will could not say. And then the interloper turned, and bolted.

Time rushed forward, wild, unshackled like a broken dam. Will fired, unloading his clip, as the man crossed the room, reaching a door. He smashed into it, causing it to buckle and fly open. Will followed, not seeing the blood cascading from Hobbs, the dagger laying discarded on the floor, not hearing the girl’s gurgling cry. He was aware only of the chase, the broken door, the stairs, the blood pounding in his ears, a red haze settling over his mind. But try as he might, Will fell behind, further and further with each step, unable to catch up, unable to keep pace. A moment later, Will found himself standing in an empty kitchen, staring at a ruined screen door, flapping gently in the breeze.

Just as suddenly as it had arrived, the pressure in his head was gone. Will was aware, as he was not a moment before, of the smells, the sounds, the sights, flowing over him from the empty house and what lay beyond. Of the girl, crying out behind him, growing fainter with every cry.

Interloper forgotten, he holstered his gun and rushed back down the stairs, stopping in the broken doorway at the bottom. There he saw Hobbs’ daughter again, as if for the first time. She was slumped back against the smooth concrete of the basement wall, blood seeping from her neck, down her pink flowery blouse and beige cardigan.

Her clear blue eyes were wide with shock as she struggled to stay conscious, to say something. Dr. Lecter knelt beside her, his small bag open beside him, murmuring soothing words. “Hello Will,” Dr. Lecter said, not looking up. “She was lucky thrice over. The blade missed an artery, neither you nor she tried to remove it, and I keep a small trauma kit in my bag.”

Relief flooding over him, Will staggered against the doorframe.

"Will, are you all right? You look a bit pale."

The last thing Will remembered as his knees gave out was the girl, surrounded by a smooth, clear patch of light cast from the light, gently swaying overhead.

_Is that singing?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and now we finish part 1!! I hope you've enjoyed it so far. We'll be taking a break from the story next week, and I'll be posting a short Omake while we start getting the next few chapters ready. 
> 
> I'm planning to move to a Friday posting, does that work?
> 
> So, now that we've finished part 1, any thoughts? Feedback welcome as always! Thank you so much for reading!


	13. Omake #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're taking a short break this week, with some silly little shorts. These events may or may not have happened, for now I'll leave it up to the reader. :D

**Omake #1**

**Snippets from Graham’s Month at the FTRB:**

Will Graham stepped through the open door into Lloyd Bowman’s office. Behind a veritable wall of monitors, Bowman sat hunched, typing away. Before Will could speak, Bowman gestured behind him. “Top right shelf.” He didn’t even looking up from his computer screen.

_I guess Beverly already called him,_ Will thought Will walking into the office, taking care to step around the piles of folders and boxes stacked around the room. Reaching a tall bookshelf, Will scanned the series of binders for the relevant case file. Out of the corner of his eye, a long shape seemed tucked behind a heating duct above the bookshelf. Peering closer, Will asked, “Why is there a shotgun back here?”

“There’s a what?” Bowman rose from his desk to investigate. “WHAT THE HELL?” He jumped back.

“What?” Will looked at him in confusion. “You didn’t put it there?”

“No!”

“You didn’t know?”

“NO!”

**Meanwhile…in the armory:**

_God, what a day,_ thought John Rankin as he walked into the armory. _At least I was able to grab some range time before I have to go back on duty._

“RANKIN!” Casey’s shout carried clear across the armory, bouncing off the concrete walls.

_Shit,_ he thought. “It’s, I mean,” Rankin spluttered.

“You brought a fucking crazy person into my armory! Why?!” She bellowed back, storming over.

“It wasn’t my decision! Spurgen told—“

Casey cut him off, “GOD DAMMIT SPURGEN. What is with this place? Why can’t they recruit _normal_ people for once.”

Rankin looked at her, confused. “…And why would normal people work for us?”

“I’m normal!”

**Jack’s office, a meeting between Beverly, Jack and Spurgen:**

“Bowman’s a nervous wreck.” Beverly shook her head.

“What now?” Jack exhaled.

“Ever since Graham pulled a shotgun from behind his heating duct…”

“What?!” Spurgen almost shouted.

Beverly continued, “He can’t go one day without finding another stash. He’s been trying to convince himself they’ve been there all along.”

“I didn’t ok any of those! Did you?” Spurgen turned to look at Jack

“No!” Jack shook his head. “Did you?” He looked at Beverly.

Beverly just looked at them incredulously.

Spurgen sighed. “I’ll have a talk with the team.”

Megan King walked over to Casey. “Did you know that Bowman has a PS4 and stash of games in his drop ceiling?”

“Anything good?”

“Eh. Most of it was Japanese shit I didn’t recognize.”

**Night of the Cemetery:**

Carefully standing on his desk, Lloyd Bowman carefully slid back a tile in the drop ceiling, and took out the PS4. _Finally, everyone was off in the boonies,_ he thought. Suzie and Tom had wandered away making amorous noises he didn’t want to think about, and the rest of the grounds crew was in bed. _Time to put the conference room display to good use_. Carefully removing the PS4, he almost fell off his desk when he saw a handwritten note taped to the top.

_Final Fantasy? Really? Have some self respect. Try Dark Souls._

**Later that night:**

The phone rang. _God dammit._ Lloyd swore as the distraction caused his character to die. He put down the controller. The menu screen filled the large display in the conference room. “Bowman here,” he said as he picked up the phone.

“Hey, code-monkey!” Zeller called from the other side. “You’ll never guess what happened.”

“What.” Lloyd said flatly. _Come on, get it over with. I just want to kill the Capra Demon!_

“Local PD found traces of explosives all over the cemetery!”

“What!” Lloyd shouted, he’d been left out of the loop on this development.

“Yeah, but who ever did it left out the actual bombs. Its like they were walking around the cemetery with a spray bottle of explosive residue and a trowel.” _Oh. This is another one of Zeller’s pranks. Not going to get worked up over this one._

“Can you get to the part where I care?” Lloyd rolled his eyes.

“Yeah to keep Graham out of the trouble, we sent him and that doctor-consultant to the slaughterhouse to interview workers.”

“Okay…still don’t care.”

“Yeah, Graham identified the perp. And for reasons that escape me, decided to pay him a house call.”

“Hah. Very funny.”

“No really! He and Dr. Lecter went to the guys’ house!”

“Pull the other one it has bells on it.” He wasn’t falling for this _again_.

“Showed up right as the guy got his throat ripped out by an evil vampire! While stabbing his daughter! He was going to ritually sacrifice her! She’s still in surgery! Graham’s still here, standing in a corner covered in blood mumbling to himself!”

“And this evil vampire? What happened to him?”

“Oh you didn’t hear? Will scared him off using his eyes! He took one look at Graham and just ran away.”

_Sure…_ Lloyd just rolled his eyes and hung up.

**Back in Baltimore after The Hobbs House:**

Hannibal closed the front door, only to immediately be confronted by Bedelia. She swirled her white wine and asked, “How did you get along with Mr. Graham?”

Taking off his coat and hanging it up, he replied, “We had a lovely chat in the car, I feel we had a genuine connection.”

She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Who is examining who?”

“That’s the delightful part.” Hannibal allowed a thin smile to slip past his icy exterior.

Bedelia pursed her lips. “Have you considered finding a less dangerous hobby? Perhaps athletic competitions held in direct sunlight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! We resume the main story next week, Jack is not happy. 
> 
> Feel free to comment with predictions, also do people want me to move to posting every other week, and longer chapters? Or keep with the fairly short chapters? (While I'd love to do longer chapters every week, its hard to keep up.)


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!

_Physiological nature of subject uncertain, but presumed hemophage. Suspect in his mid to late 30’s, dark brown hair and eyes, mullet, last seen wearing a battered leather jacket. Approach with extreme caution. We don’t know what Graham did to make him run away, but don’t assume it will happen again._ _— Internal FTRB Alert_

 

**Lancaster, PA**

Sirens blaring, the convoy tore down the highway, York County rapidly receding behind them as the speedometer hovered just under 90. Donald McCusker could not recall a time he had been so angry. Jack too had been livid at Dr. Lecter’s call, and to his credit he didn’t waste time. Eight minutes later, the convoy was already on its way, leaving Thompson’s team, Katz, and Spurgen to wrap up the circus at the cemetery.

Jack had insisted on taking the lead car, choosing to forego the offered local escorts. _I’m of two minds,_ thought Donald. _If we run into trouble, or even some drunk with his lights out… But if we waited for the locals, we’d be another fifteen minutes getting ready. And after seeing that display at the cemetery, I’m sure that no matter how gung-ho those Sheriff’s boys are, if they tried to keep up with us, there’d be at least one wreck. With fatalities._

_But then again, the only way you’d get me in a standard police cruiser at this speed would be if you shot me._

“You did try and warn me.” Jack said in a low voice.

Donald snorted grimly. “Not well enough, apparently. We should have listened to Bloom.”

Jack only grunted in response.

They sat in silence, the tension palpable. Finally, Donald broke the silence. “Graham, Graham I can understand. No questioning it now, the boy has a gift. Marlowe wasn’t a fluke—and since he’s still alive, I’m inclined to say the alley wasn’t either,” _No matter what Zeller might say._ “What I don’t understand is Lecter. Any fool can tell Graham hasn’t the sense God gave a baby duck. But if Lecter’s as insightful as Bloom claims, there’s no way could have he missed that. Why didn’t _Lecter_ call it in? He’s around law enforcement enough to know how these things should operate.”

Jack grunted again. _Bottling it in for later._

“Turn right in one mile,” intoned the GPS. _Finally,_ thought Donald.

***

As soon as they pulled up to the Hobbs’ house, Jack jumped out of the SUV, Donald close behind. Ignoring the front door, Jack headed purposefully towards the lit stairwell along the side of the two story house, leaving Rankin and his team to fan out and secure the area. Behind them, Dr. Bloom hurried to the local ambulance parked nearby, which presumably contained Graham. Unsurprisingly, when Jack heard that Graham was in no immediate danger, he ordered that the paramedics and Will remain on site, Dr. Bloom’s protests be damned. _He’ll get his treatment soon enough. Jack will want him in Dr. Bloom’s clinic, not in some backwoods chopshop._

Donald knew that a second ambulance, containing the Hobbs girl, had already left. Jack’s concern did not extend to her.

A grey sedan had spun out on the muddy grass, strewing mud and debris across the otherwise neatly tended lawn, tires stuck in the dirt. The reason was clear—Graham’s SUV was parked across the driveway, blocking in both the garage and the empty parking area in front of it. Someone, presumably the driver of the sedan, had then tried to break into Graham’s SUV. They hadn’t succeeded. Casey no doubt would be pleased to hear that her defensive measures had worked. _She will, of course, be less pleased when she sees the damage done to the car by that would be thief before he gave up. But well, you can’t win them all._

Turning to the side of the house, Jack and Donald hurried down the basement steps, and through the open door. Entering, they found Dr. Lecter bent awkwardly over a brown leather doctor’s bag. At their entrance, he looked up and straightened up. The tall, pale man’s calm expression stood in stark contrast to the carnage around him.

Mere feet away sprawled the pale corpse of Garret Jacob Hobbs, his cloudy eyes staring lifelessly upward. Something, and Donald had a sickening feeling he knew what, had reduced Hobbs’ neck to a tattered ruin. Arterial blood sprayed all over the floor and nearby walls. Close by lay a sticky outline, presumably where the Hobbs girl had lain in a pool of her and her father’s blood. The path of her slow collapse could be traced by the trails of now rusty blood on the floor, and its slow congregation toward the drain in the center of the room.

“Dr. McCusker, I presume?” Lecter said politely. With a start, Donald realized Lecter was talking to him. He glanced at Jack, not wanting to get in the way, but Jack had already pushed through the door on the far side of the room, and vanished up the stairs. _Leaving me to deal with the mess._ Donald inhaled, trying to stay calm. While he was well known among the FTRB as a mellowing factor for Jack, he could not abide incompetence. And the events of the evening left his temper _very_ thin.

“Dr. Lecter.” Donald replied, forcing himself to maintain a level tone. He looked up at the taller man. “The paramedics reported that, without you, the girl would have died. And for that you should be congratulated.”

“I merely did what any man would do.” Lecter replied in the same tone, his face set and expressionless. He had remarkably little blood on him, only the faintest splatters along the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. Perhaps his dark red sweater hid any further marks.

It was all Donald could do not to stare. _How can he remain so calm, after what happened? While standing in the middle of all this?_ Even with his military training, Donald still found scenes like this difficult. Not trusting himself to reply, he bent down and deliberately closed Hobbs clouded, glassy eyes, careful not to get blood on his sleeve. _Least I can do._ Straightening up, he turned back to Lecter.

“And Graham?” Donald asked, changing the subject.

“Unconscious, but in no immediate danger. Over-exerted himself, I suspect. He is, I gather, resting comfortably in the ambulance outside.” With his dispassionate tone, Lecter seemed completely indifferent about Will’s wellbeing.

“And can you tell me how all of… _this_ happened?” Donald asked tartly, gesturing around the bloody room.

Expressionless, Lecter replied, “Special Agent Graham identified a potential lead, and elected to pursue it. We arrived to find an unknown man engaged in a loud dispute with Hobbs. When interrupted, Hobbs attacked his daughter and the man attacked Hobbs. Unfortunately, although Special Agent Graham pursued the man, he was eluded. Shortly thereafter, Special Agent Graham passed out.”

Donald blinked. Lecter had delivered his report in the same tone one might use to place a takeout order. The man was all too nonchalant about the carnage _he_ caused. Donald snapped. “And can you explain to me _why_ , precisely _you_ allowed Graham to do this alone?” He continued, looking up over his wire-framed glasses, his anger bubbling to the surface. “ _Without_ calling for backup, _without_ even calling to update us on location?”

Lecter stiffened, his eyes twitched. “I naturally deferred to my colleague with the FBI.”

“And it didn’t cross your mind to think?!” Donald shouted, clenching his fists, glaring up.

The man inclined his head, his eyes cold. “In my previous experience, when working with the Bureau, it is not wise to offer one’s thoughts unbidden. Such presumption is _rarely_ appreciated.”

Donald inhaled and started speaking in a calm, cool, deliberate tone that a generation of research assistants had learned to dread. “You and he were both given _very specific_ instructions to check in. I don’t care if _he_ wanted to rush on ahead. You were _both_ given orders to check in.”

The doctor seemed completely unperturbed by his admonitions. Lecter indifferently replied, looking down, “I assumed you had good reason to trust Graham unsupervised in the field.” He raised an eyebrow, almost daring. “Was I wrong?”

Donald was shocked by the man’s complete arrogance and ensuing incompetence. Was it _too difficult_ to follow instructions? Graham wasn’t even an agent! Did this man think the Bureau let its specialists run about unsupervised? Why else would they have extended an offer to let him accompany Graham? Did this man seriously think he was so important the FBI _actually_ needed his input? _If so, what a sad, sad man._

He had enough. He pursed his lips before speaking in a frigid tone, “I don’t why local PD spoke so highly of you. We gave you the benefit of the doubt. _I_ gave you the benefit of the doubt. It’s now clear such trust was misplaced.”

For a brief second Lecter’s brow crinkled. He looked displeased, but Donald didn’t care. Distantly, the man said, “In that case, I shall take my leave before I give further offense.”

“ _Don’t_.” Donald cut him off. “Just stay here. I’m sure Ja—“ He caught himself, “ _Agent Crawford_ will wish to speak to you.”

***

After surveying the house and confirming with Rankin that the scene was secure, Jack made his way back to the basement. Entering, Jack saw Dr. Lecter standing stiffly, neatly holding his bag. Although he was wearing only pressed slacks and a light shirt and sweater, the man seemed unbothered by the cool breeze flowing through the open cellar door. From his discussion with the paramedics, Jack had gathered that Lecter’s jacket had gone with the Hobbs girl.

Nearby, Jack saw McCusker seething in a corner, pretending to examine the usual detritus populating basements. It didn’t take long for Jack to realize something had happened. _Calmly now, calmly,_ he thought to himself. He hated playing diplomat, but since it looked like McCusker had saved him the trouble of playing bad cop, it was up to him to try and soothe over the wounds. Not an easy task given how angry Jack was at Graham and Lecter’s apparent decision making skills.

Jack walked up to Dr. Lecter and extended his hand, and with a forced expression said, “Thank you for waiting. We appreciate you accompanying Special Agent Graham this evening.”

“I am of course, happy as always to assist the Bureau.” Dr. Lecter replied evenly.

“The pleasure is mine. Thanks to your effort, the Hobbs girl is alive, likely Graham too. Unfortunately, the evening’s not over. One of my colleagues will be down shortly to speak with you, while the memory of the evening’s still fresh.”

“But of course.” Dr. Lecter replied. “While waiting, I took the liberty of dictating my immediate thoughts. I can send you the audio file, and the automatically generated transcript if you would be so kind as to provide the desired email address.”

Jack blinked. He had not expected such foresight from a civilian. Taking out a pad of paper, he wrote down an address, tore out the page, and handed it to Lecter. “I’ll tell Price to look over it before speaking with you. We should be able to let you go in an hour or so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Someone just saved Jack's life. 
> 
> Next Week: Will starts to deal with the aftermath
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Comments/feedback/predictions welcome! Its what keeps us writing! :D


	15. Chapter Fourteen

_While FBI and local law enforcement were busy happily re-enacting the invasion of Normandy at a nearby graveyard, Garett Jacob Hobbs was confronted mere miles away. No explanation has been given why Hobbs was confronted only by Will Graham, (a cop deemed too unstable for the New Orleans Police Department), and noted area psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter. Although we applaud the FBI’s belated realization that Mr. Graham needs professional help, it boggles the mind that their response was to send him into the field with a therapist._   _-Excerpt from Tattlecrime.com_

**York, PA — Motel — The Next Morning**

Will Graham stood at the edge of a great, dark, body of water, staring out into the distance. He could feel the grass, cool and wet beneath his bare feet, feel the wind rushing restlessly off the sea. The crashing sound of the waves against the shore surrounded him, suffused him, deep, rich, melodic, repeating, slow and steady under the overcast night sky. The sea was new, foreign, and felt strangely alien to this land.

Time passed. The air grew heavier, the clouds grew restless, the call of the waves grew louder, more urgent.

Will turned. He stood at the base of a small, wooded hill, barely visible in the dim light seeping through the clouds above. It was alien to the bayous of his youth, yet still it was familiar. He made his way forward, slowly at first, passing carefully through dense trees, wary of the sharp rocks and tangled underbrush cutting into his bare feet. Yet, as the summit grew nearer, Will felt himself propelled forward with increasing urgency, driven forward by a looming presence, felt and not seen, haunting his shadow.

Finally, wind howling behind him, he broke out of the woods. Before him sat the Hobbs’ house, twisted, distorted, misshapen. As he entered its influence, the song of the waves drifted off, distant, muffled by the malevolence washing from the home, oozing like an unnatural miasma.

Will ran to the house, to the stairs stretching out before him, a twisting, gaping wound in the Earth, plunging into the heart of the house, of the hill. He pushed forward, into the darkness, knowing, despite hope, that tragedy waited. Reaching the stairs’ end, Will turned, throwing himself through the open door. The sound of the waves suddenly roared. Caught in the doorway, Will froze.

Before him, they stood, the man, the daughter, and the interloper. A moment of confrontation, caught before him in a single, beautiful, terrible, lucid moment, eyes aflame with rage, fear, and desperation.

And then, an instant and eternity later, the looming presence returned in a great, terrible silence. A dark shape, sinister and serpentine, lunged past in a flash, striking once, twice, leaving the man dead, the girl wounded, then slowly retreating to loom once more in Will’s shadow.

Will rushed forward, desperate to intervene, to do something, anything. But for each step forward, they receded two more into the darkness.

A brisk breeze descended onto the room, and Will felt the faint chill of water lapping at his feet. Then, with a great roar, the music of the waves returned in a torrent, down the stairs, through the open door. Slowly, so slowly, the interloper turned to Will, looking at him, past him, drawn to and repulsed by the sea. Eyes now wide in sudden, horrible comprehension, he turned to flee, but it was too late.

With a great crescendo, the music of the waves swept across the room to Will, through Will. As it flowed to him, Will could feel the presence behind draw ever nearer, coiling about him as it struggling in vain against the unstoppable force of the sea. He saw the interloper swept away mercilessly into the darkness beyond, saw the man and girl more gently drift aside, yet still not immune to the currents about them. Through it all, as even the walls around them fell before the force of the waves, Will stood unmoved, unfazed, at one with the great forces that moved about him. He felt strangely at peace, surrounded by warmth and safety, welcome in a way he had not felt since he left home, so long ago.

Then suddenly, the comforting sound of the waves were gone, replaced by an intrusive, discordant shriek, harsh and alien, yanking Will backwards, upwards, past the door, past the stairs, into the dark, stormy sky, and beyond.

HONK HONK.

Slowly, Will Graham blinked his eyes. He lay in a clammy, dark place, soaked to the skin with sweat, and bleary with fatigue.

HONK HONK.

With a groan, Will rolled to the side of the bed. He remembered now—the ambulance and Dr. Bloom, a miserable ride to a miserable motel, and then the showers, the skin rubbed raw, the cheap whiskey and worse cigarettes, the long, doomed struggle to find something, anything to stop the blood seeping into the corners of his dreams.

HONK HONK HONK

Stumbling out of bed, Will dragged himself to the curtain, and peered wearily through a crack in the blinds. Beyond loomed a large, imposing, familiar SUV, looming angrily just beyond the door. _Jack._

HONK HONK

Fumbling through half remembered routines, Will assembled a thin façade of normalcy—dirty jeans, grey Henley, battered jacket. Groggily, he shuffled out, and collapsed, spent, into the passenger seat.

“Good morning!” Jack said, in an entirely too cheerful tone. “Coffee?”

Wordlessly, Will took the offered mug, and sipped the dark, bitter, beverage. “Where are we going?”

“Walkthrough of the Hobbs house.”

“I already told you what happened.” Will replied wearily. _At least, I think I did. In the ambulance?_ The events of the last—Will glanced at the dashboard clock and grimaced—six hours drifted through his mind shrouded in a maddening fog.

“You did. To Dr. Bloom. I reviewed it. We need more.” Jack paused briefly, sliding out of the motel parking lot in a rush of flashing lights and blaring sirens. “The girl and the attacker. Full profiles, or as close as we can get.”

Will turned, looking out the window. Beyond, early morning traffic flashed by, far too quickly for comfort. He turned his attention back to the cup of coffee. “The cemetery. What happened?”

“A distraction.” Jack groused. “Someone meticulously planted and concealed over two dozen decoy explosives.”

Will frowned. “To what end?” He noticed that he had put his Henley shirt on inside out.

“You tell me.”

Will surreptitiously fastened his jacket, hoping Jack hadn’t noticed, and winced as Jack swerved to avoid a police cruiser double parked along the side of the road. _The cemetery was an act of calculation, or calculated, deliberate humiliation. A final act in the day’s tragedy, building upon and completing the humiliation of Cassie Boyle. And what of Hobbs? Of the interloper? No, there was no calculation, no deliberation there, It is not they who we seek._

“Will?” Jack spoke. “You drifted off.”

“Oh. Yeah. No, it wasn’t Hobbs, or the interloper. Neither of them did it. Whoever set that stage in the stream, that’s the lead on your phantom bomber.”

Jack gave him an odd look. “So, who then?”

 _Didn’t he hear me?_ Will rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Boyle was positively gift wrapped. She led us to Hobbs; the killer had to know…he wasn’t doing Hobbs any favors…” Will blinked himself back awake. “If he set Hobbs up to get caught, why then stage a distraction to keep us away?”

“So it’s unrelated?”

 _Someone wanted a distraction._ “Someone went to a lot of trouble to lead us to Hobbs, then keep you busy.” Will closed his eyes as Jack passed a tractor trailer, in the wrong lane, at 70 miles per hour. “Why?” Will instructed. “Figure that out. The rest should be obvious.”

“And if there isn’t anything?”

Will shrugged and took a sip of coffee, finally starting to feel awake, if not yet alive. “Then we missed something, you missed something. Something big. You tell me.”

***

The car pulled up into the gravel driveway. Looking up at the house in the morning light, it seemed somehow different from what Will remembered. Smaller, somehow. Emptier. More ragged. The malignant presence he had sense before was gone, leaving behind only an empty shell. Will felt like he was seeing it for the first time.

To Will’s surprise, the borrowed black SUV still sat askew across the drive. The tires were slit, and there were several large dents on the driver’s side door, but miraculously, the glass remained intact. The interloper’s grey sedan was a few yards away, wheels half sunk in the muddy ruin of the lawn.

“He must have circled back after I passed out.” Will remarked.

“You’re lucky he didn’t come downstairs.” Jack replied.

 _Lucky._ Will shook his head. He’d heard that a lot lately, but he didn’t feel it. _This time, it’s the young girl, Abigail, left on death’s door. It felt better when it was just me._

Seeking some way to change the subject, Will gestured vaguely to the grey sedan. “Did you check his car?”

Jack nodded. “Registered to a 70 year old widow in Duluth. So not him.” Turning, Jack strode toward the side of the house. “Bowman’s on the money trail.”

Cautiously, Will followed. In his mind’s eye, he could see the basement—a dark, cavernous space, large, menacing, empty for all but for the broken bodies and screams.

But in the light of day, streaming in through the open door, the room was different. Less intimate, less menacing. All around the room, shelves were filled, overflowed with the casual debris of family life, all heavy with dust and neglect. Slowly rotating, Will allowed the room’s contents to flow over him. Handicrafts and heirlooms, half-finished home improvement projects and tools, faded boxes of fine flatware and glasses— _remnants of a long forgotten wedding registry, no doubt._ Neatly labeled boxes, clothes, boots, forgotten sports equipment, even a pair of snowshoes. Carpentry tools and tax returns, schoolwork and broken toys.

Set slightly apart and free from the patina of dust and irrigo suffusing the rest of the room, stood a table and shelf alive with creativity, warmth, and sinister purpose. Covered in paper, paints, and pallets, lighting equipment, and eagles and camp stools, knives, a basin and cleaners.

At the back of the room, stood two doors. One led upstairs to the kitchen—that one Will remembered. The other, new to him. _I guess Jack was right about needing to come back…_

Ignoring the blood splatters and stains discoloring the walls and concrete floor, Will walked towards the closed door. He turned the round brass knob, and filled with trepidation, cautiously opened it.

Beyond, he found a small room crammed full of canvases and framed paintings of young girls, impressionistic, painted in monochrome with the occasional pop of red. A simple easel held the place of honor in the center of the room. Although windowless, an array of carefully placed, high quality lights dotted the room’s walls and ceiling, able to easily mimic any time, any season. _Hobbs sure took his painting seriously… But if he wanted exterior lighting, why not just go outside?_

Will examined the paintings more closely, some showing domestic scenes, others commemorating milestone events. Will heard himself say distantly, “They’re the same poses, Jack. Carlisle, Philadelphia.” He gestured to the work just starting to take shape on the easel. “Dickenson.”

“All include details not known to the public.” Jack briskly replied, stepping closer to inspect the sketch of the girl eating cereal.

In his mind’s eye, Will saw the body of Elise Nichols, sitting in her dorm room, posed to eat Cheerios. Then in a blink of an eye, she was gone. In her place, Hobbs’ daughter sat at the kitchen counter upstairs, laughing over breakfast. Then Elise at the counter, dead. Her. Elise. Her. Elise. In a seamless dance, the two blended together.

“These are composites. Of the victims, and his daughter.”

Jack nodded.

“But then, what are these?” Will gestured toward a set of previously noticed paintings, hung along the back wall. He stepped closer to inspect the many canvases, portraits of all genders and ages in a myriad of colors.

“They don’t match any tableaus on file.” Jack stated, examining a portrait of a slick young man, ostentatiously attired in black, sitting at an ostentatious desk.

Will’s eyes flitted back and forth across the canvases, allowing them to blur together in his mind, their subjects moving, laughing, looking for a connection, and finding none.

Jack coughed behind him.

“Sorry.” Will furled his brow in thought. “These are _not_ composites. They’re not her. They’re not him. Either these people weren’t killed. Or, they were killed, but not by him.”

“The other man? One of his patrons?”

“Perhaps…” Will shrugged, absentmindedly opening the drawers on the large dresser on one side of the room. It was filled with the usual paints and art supplies, except for one, which was filled with photographs. Some were portraits of knowing subjects, some taken surreptitiously from afar, some by expert photographers, others by rank amateurs. Gesturing to the open drawer, Will continued. “Run the pictures against missing person reports. See what comes up.”

Jack merely nodded, lip curling in distaste at a painting of a young girl, no more than 12, inappropriately attired, bathed in shadows.

Will abruptly turned, and walked back into the main room, his feet thumping on the concrete floor. “Did you test the paint?”

“The paint?” Jack raised an eyebrow.

Will gestured vaguely about the room. “The girls. He would want to preserve them. Keep their essence. Blood, viscera, finely ground bone. Things like that. Have Price and Zeller run his paints.”

"I thought you said he was eating them!" Jack responded in horror.

“There are a lot of organs in the human body, Jack." Will responded, before closing his eyes in thought. Abruptly, he hurried back into the small room, counting the paintings again. “These paintings, they only show the last few girls. Some are missing. Some we know he did. Were there more, elsewhere in the house?”

“No. Only these.”

“There should be more.” Will frowned. “No, he’s selling them.” Will paused, looking up in thought, thinking of the loving tenderness portrayed in the paintings. Suddenly overwhelmed, Will stumbled out of the room, up the stairs, and into the sunlight. Jack followed, starring impatiently as Will leaned against the side of the house, eyes closed, head in his hands.

“He did this for her. _For Abigail._ You’ll find an account, a college fund, most likely. The proceeds from the paintings will be there. Follow the money.”

Jack looked incredulous. “That’s it?”

Will turned, and stared at him blankly. “Isn’t that enough?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Will. He's not doing so well. 
> 
> I'm debating about doing a double chapter next week, I've been splitting up chapters based on length, which I think may be slowing down the story? I'm not sure. Do people like the lengths? Or do people want longer chapters, less frequent updates, and chapters grouped more by plot beats?
> 
> Also next week Freddie's back!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback welcome!


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually two chapters, I'll split them next posting, which hopefully is next Friday, but may be the Friday after, depending on how editing goes.

_“Not only did the killer fittingly work at a slaughterhouse, law enforcement has yet to recover any traces of the missing girls! Let us know in the comments what you think he did with the bodies! This journalist will be avoiding meat for the near future.” - Excerpt from Tattlecrime.com_

 

**Baltimore MA — The Next Morning**

_And that,_ Freddie thought, as she stumbled, exhausted into her ‘newsroom’, _is why I stick to local news._

The larger room in her cozy two-bedroom apartment, like all _proper_ newsrooms, was an absolute mess. Notebooks, clippings, photographs, and SD cards covered every available surface, even in some places spilling over onto the floor. Whiteboards of scribbled notes hung on the walls, along with several overflowing cork boards. When even those proved inadequate, she’d resorted to tearing out sheets of paper and hanging them up with tape. The fourth wall was the most important of all. On it hung her own, personal FUCK YOU to the haters and losers who’d looked down on her when she’d set out on her own to found Tattlecrime. Framed news articles, resignation letters, and press releases from stories _she_ broke.

After all, for a journalist, _scoops_ were the best revenge.

Sighing, she collapsed into the sinfully comfortable chair at her desk, exhausted from her trip. Oh, she’d gotten all kinds of great material from her Lancaster pub crawl. _Turn on the charm, and those rural hicks were even bigger suckers than city cops._ But the drive! The _last_ thing she wanted to do after hours of barhopping was driving hours to get home.

 _Three hours until dawn. Shit, maybe I should have gotten that motel room. OK, no pressure, Freddie, you’ve done this before._ Yawning, she opened her MacBook. _Oh my, now this is interesting,_ she thought skimming her email. _It looks like the photographer DID manage to get his pictures out before the fuzz got him._ She started flipping through the photos. _Low res or not, they sure beat all those shitty cell pics from Lancaster’s finest._

_Why, why did he have to get himself taken away just when things were getting good! If he’d only been a teeny tiny bit better at hiding, we’d have pictures of that snipe-bomb hunt! Hmmm…I wonder what it would take to get bail written off as a business expense?_

_Oh, now what do we have here?_ Flipping through the images, she paused on a close up of a tall, thin, dark haired man with a scruffy beard in an FBI windbreaker and a vacant expression. _I know I’ve seen him before…Last July was it?_ Bending over, she started rummaging in her desk drawers. _Where oh where did I put those old SD cards…_

Sometime later, she found who she was looking for. _Brian Zeller_ , that was his name. Although if he was with the FBI at the time, he hadn’t said so. She turned back to her computer, opened a new browser window and started searching.

_Facebook…Foursquare…LinkedIn…MYSPACE of all things…and ooohooo…a[Match.com](http://Match.com) profile. Jackpot._

_***_

Freddie stood outside the Galloping Whale and looked at her phone: _5:00 PM_. A hell of a time for an FBI hotshot to be at a pub, but if his Foursquare account was correct, he’d be here. _Social media—God’s gift to tabloid journalists._

Taking a deep breath, she loudly pushed open the door. _Mission accomplished,_ she thought, as several heads turned to stare. She knew she was making an entrance in her tight, bright red dress and spiked heeled ankle booties, each with matching cheetah print trim.

Swaying over to the juke-box, she skimmed the selection, finally settling on _The Book of Love._ Step one complete, she turned to find her prey.

The bar was, well, better than she’d expected. She’d certainly seen in far worse places trying to wheedle information out of people who _really_ should know better. Here, at least, the tables appeared clean, the bottles behind the bar varied, and the tap heads were for respectable micro-brews, no Bud Light here. Hanging above the bar was a blue neon sign, depicting a smiling, dancing whale in a sailor’s cap, life preserver thrown over one fin, pint glass in the other.

And directly under the sign was Brian Zeller, sitting alone at the bar. He wore pressed slacks, and a tight, red-wine button down shirt. _Clearly trying to show off his chest._ Freddie thought as she sauntered over. _At least he’s fit. Maybe this won’t be too painful._

Ignoring his very noticeable ogle, Freddie strolled over to the bar, and perched on one of the green faux-leather stools next to him. Then she waited for him to make the first move. _And, 3, 2, 1…_

“How’s your day going?” he asked, right on cue. It looked like he was drinking… _no nursing a jaeger bomb?_

Rolling her eyes, she replied, “Terrible. Fucker stood me up. This is the last time I let my friend set up a blind date.” She looked at him with a bored expression. “How about you?” From the dazed look in his eyes, Zeller had already had, oh, _several. Good, this makes my job easier._

“Same old, same old. So you like Peter Gabriel?” He nodded towards the Jukebox.

“Oh, I just adore him!” Freddie’s eyes lit up. “Have you heard his album, _And I’ll Scratch Yours?”_

“Oh will you?” Zeller laughed, awkwardly. “Yeah, I just got it, but really, I prefer the classics.” Hearing her song was nearing its end, he nodded toward the jukebox. “Allow me,” he said, in what Freddie was sure he _thought_ was a suave tone, before sauntering over and putting on _In Your Eyes._ Freddie noticed the bartender roll her eyes. _Apparently not the first time he’s used that move._

As Zeller was momentarily preoccupied, Freddie turned to the bartender, a pretty blonde woman wearing a turtle neck, and slid her several large bills. “Just keep the drinks flowing in his direction.” Freddie murmured. The bartender looked at her skeptically, before shrugging and taking the money.

Zeller returned. “That’s better. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh…I suppose,” She said in an indifferent tone before laughing. “What do you recommend?” _Men always like to choose,_ she mused. _Gives them an imaginary sense of control_.

She was correct. A wide smile came across Zeller’s face as he called the bartender over. “I’ll take three fingers of rum, and the lady will have a naked orgasm, no, screaming orgasm, that’s what you call it.” He turned back to her, still positively beaming, “Has anyone told you that you have the most beautiful eyes?”

Freddie couldn’t stifle the laugh. If she was certain about one thing, he wasn’t looking at her eyes. She adjusted her dress, giving him an even better view of her _fabulous_ cleavage. “So, what do you do?” She said, leaning forward, gazing at him through her heavy fake eyelashes.

“I’m with the FBI.”

“Oooh.” Technically it was true. He was with the FBI. The same way, a gaffer was “in the movies.”

She leaned forward conspiratorially, and whispered, “So, have you ever shot anyone?”

He pulled back, looking sheepish. “No, no. I’m in Forensics,” _Thank God that was his answer._ She was relieved, for a moment, she thought she was going to have to face a bad double entendre.

To diffuse his tension, she giggled and again leaned forward allowing him a good view, and not of her eyes. He took the bait. Spirits lifted, he started laughing. Noticing that the drinks had arrived, he passed her some kind of sticky sweet abomination, downed remains of the jaeger bomb, and started on his rum. Visibly relaxed, he changed the subject. “So, do you have any hobbies, watch any sports teams…”

***

 _Small talk is just so much easier when you already know what the person likes, and can do a little ‘preemptive research.’_ Freddie thought as some time, some drinks, and a near-lethal amount of small talk later, they broached the topic of his work.

“…The FBI recruited someone unstable?” She asked, looking shocked, hand to her mouth. She couldn’t wait to learn more about this Will Graham, who from the photos she’d obtained from the Lancaster PD, looked like he shot up before going to work.

“Understatement. I just ran some lab results on this fight. He was a cop in New Orleans…” Zeller paused, and closed his eyes. _That would be drink number four kicking in…and that’s the just the drinks he’s had with me!_ she thought as she pushed drink number five, a glass of rum towards him. “Mrmm…” He drifted off.

“You were saying about your new colleague?” She gently pushed. _This could be a gold mine, local cops and paramedics only knew so much._

“Oh. Yeah. Got put on leave for being weird. Anyway, lab results. Yeah. Lab results. He got attacked after going on leave, messed up pretty bad, but get this, he bit his attacker’s ear off! Set the guy on fire too! And I have to work with this guy!”

“That’s troubling…” She replied, trying to sound concerned, and mask the greedy rush she found whenever she sensed the beginning of a big story.

“Yeah, tell me about it. Who knows when he’ll just wig out and go Mike Tyson on us all. Just the other day he chased off someone who _ripped out a guy’s throat!_ Apparently that guy decided to get the fuck out when he saw Graham! Then there was the time he went to the bathroom and came back with a grenade and a handgun! Pulled it out of the toilet!”

 _Err…_ this was getting weird, even for her. “Is…this a _usual_ thing that happens in your workplace?” _Maybe he had too much to drink…_ she thought. It was a fine line when working with informants.

“No!” Zeller exclaimed, “Toilets don’t produce grenades! The guy _is whack_.” He suddenly looked concerned. “I don’t feel so well.”

“So…why did the FBI hire this guy?” She was now certain there was a story here, _if_ she could filter out the crazy. She needed to find out more about this Will Graham. _Maybe take a trip down to New Orleans?_

“Yeah…supposedly he ‘get’s inside the mind of the killer’ or ‘thinks like them’. That’s just a polite way of saying he’s _totes_ insane.” Zeller paused, and looked at his tumbler. “I thought I drank…“ _It’s only taken you 2 drinks to notice,_ she thought.

“There’s more.” She said flatly. With luck he’d think it was the rum they ordered. Honestly he was so drunk she wasn’t sure he’d notice.

“Oh sure.” He started sipping slowly. “You know, Will’s not all bad. The best thing about him is that Jack—that’s my boss—Jack Crawford—is too worried he’ll going to go bug-fuck crazy to care about where I am…Ugghh…” Zeller groaned. As he rose from his stool, she knew he was going to fall. Smoothly catching him, she helped him back onto his seat.

He started murmuring, “Thanks, I just thought I’d check first to see if you have a prolonged half-life, ‘cause I’m pretty good at radiocarbon dating.” _He was really far gone_ , she thought, _Christ, he was giggling_. _What are we? On drink 6?_

“You really are a charmer, now just sit a bit longer. Here, drink this.” She handed him back his half-drunk glass of rum.

Zeller moaned, obediently finishing his drink. “I _really_ don’t feel so well.”

“It’s getting a bit crowded here.” Vaguely annoyed, she realized that she had gotten all the information she was going to get out of him tonight. He was _wasted_. _Lessons for next time: Some informants are lightweights, don’t get them too drunk._ She rose. “Where’s your car? I can take you back to your apartment.”

“My apartment is around the block…” He slurred.

She turned just in time to see him rise—and start to fall over. Quickly, she caught him, preventing him from colliding with the side of the bar. “Baby,” he murmured at her as she helped him out of the bar, “if this were an 80’s movie, you’d be in the back of my DeLorean right now.” She closed her eyes. _He must spend his free time thinking up these lines…_

Well, at least there was the comfort that he wouldn’t remember much of this night. Might as well give him the illusion of a happy ending.

**FTRB HQ — VIP Room — That Night**

Will sat alone in the darkened Vip room, the harsh blue glare of his laptop the room’s sole source of illumination. The others—Beverly, Alana, the rest—had all long-since gone, to homes, to lives, the relief in their eyes palpable at his refusal of their all-too-polite invitations to join them, to escape a few brief hours from his lonely chronicle.

But he knew such an escape would only serve as an illusion, a distraction from the work at hand. He had come too far, dove too deep. Before, in New Orleans, elsewhere, he was constrained, confined to a tiny corner of a crowded room, writing frantically in stolen moments amidst a thousand screaming distractions, always pressured by the next patrol, the next shift, the next meeting, unable to focus, unable to see. But now, in Baltimore, he’d been unshackled, his mind set free. Now, he need not even close his eyes to see them, to feel them—

_Beautiful young girls looking out at him through sad, dead eyes, posed in grim mockery of normalcy, sacrifices made in the image of the girl even now hovering between life and death…_

_A tortured exhausted soul fighting a last, desperate holding action to shield his heart from the demons afflicting him…_

_A mangy scavenger, jealous and proud, terrified at its sudden discovery._

Some part of Will had hoped, foolishly, that some measure of peace might be found in finally, fully chronicling the broken souls, haunting him. That he would have fulfilled his duty. But it was not to be. Having invited them in, cultivated them, come to know them, Will could no more be free of them than he could melt away into mist and drift away on the ocean breeze.

Slowly, reverently, Will closed the laptop. Although his eyes and mind ached with fatigue, he dared not sleep, dared not return to the nightmares of the night before.

Leaning back in his chair, Will retrieved a heavy, cream colored business card from his wallet, turning the elegant card over in his hands. Should he call? A night and eternity before, Dr. Lecter had come to the ambulance, insistent, and pressed it into his hands. And Will was tempted. There was now a shared knowledge between them, a shared guilt, something that Alana Bloom, Donald McCusker could never understand. But no, no matter what they shared, Dr. Lecter’s profession tainted him. He would always pick and probe, viewing Will as some sort of project that needed ‘curing’. With Dr. Lecter, Will would never be truly free from an obligation to perform.

Abruptly, Will stood. Leaving the business card on the table, he crossed the small room in two short strides. Reaching the bedside table, he poured himself a shot of Evan Williams, and, throwing his head back, downed it in a single gulp. He briefly closed his eyes as he let the liquid warm his insides, feeling the slow burn down the back of his throat.

There would be, could be, no peace in this room. Not now. Gathering his jacket, and putting on his shoes, Will strode out the door.

Reaching the stairs, he paused. He yearned to go outside, escape the confining walls of Crawford’s institution, to walk under the open sky and commune with the stars. But to leave was to first descend into the dark labyrinth beneath the complex.

A part of him feared that were he to enter in his present state, _something else_ might exit.

And so, on a whim, Will went up, into the unknown.

**Baltimore, MA — Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s Office**

Hannibal Lecter took a seat at his spacious desk in the middle of his office, pleased to return to the steady, comforting routine of his psychiatric practice. Yet, try as he might focus, he could not keep his thoughts from returning to Will Graham.

The boy was everything and more that Alana claimed. He supposed he _should_ be annoyed with the boy’s intellect, with all the damage done to Hannibal’s lucrative commercial arrangements. But, in the face of such singular talent, Hannibal could only feel privileged that he had the honor to observe.

It had been truly a night of surprises. So many of Will’s kind, so many of Hannibal’s brethren, simply collapsed when faced with a challenge outside of their ordinary experience. But Will! Will forced himself beyond the bounds of his own mind when faced with factory staff. Will’s daring, Will’s drive! In a few decisive moments, Will mooted all efforts to pre-occupy Crawford at the cemetery. And, perhaps most remarkable of all, Will’s confrontation in the basement using nothing more than the sheer force of his will.

Hannibal couldn’t remember the last time he had encountered such an interesting specimen. He longed to know more.

He felt his cell phone, heavy in his brown plaid suit pocket. It was unfortunate the young man had yet to call. He’d given him his phone number—had the boy lost it? _No, perhaps he’s just too shy._

 _But time for that later,_ Hannibal thought after a moment. His next appointment would be here soon. He reached for the brown leather-bound planner on his desk, and flipped it open. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it goes without saying, getting someone drunk like that is not cool. But Freddie never had a lot of scruples. Aren't they some kind of money in Russia? Also, poor Zeller, I hope I wasn't /too/ mean to him, but Freller is a really funny combo.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was previously part of a double post. Now it's its own chapter.

_“Mr. Zeller declined to explain why a key FBI researcher could be found in a bar at 5PM on a work night getting shit-faced, and trying to pick up journalists.” —Excerpt from Tattlecrime.com [Posted next to a picture of Brian Zeller, passed out on a couch, wine red shirt unbuttoned, drool dribbling down his chin. Caption meme-style, reads: Your Tax $$ at Work]_

 

**FTRB HQ — Science Building Roof — That Night**

Will Graham stood beneath the cool, clear sky, alone in the midst of the large flat expanse of the FTRB’s Science Building’s roof. Behind him stood the shadow entryway which he came through, in front he could just make out the dark outline of a low encircling wall. Beyond? The scattered lights of the greater complex, distant residences, and barely visible along the horizon, the environs of Baltimore, softly glowing against the night.

Leaning, now, against the edge of the roof, he could feel the wind on his face, hear the slow, steady, rhythm of his heart, loud in his ears against the night’s stillness. He felt as if on the deck of a great ship, slowly making its way through an unexpected calm. Above, apart from the world beyond, and moving toward destinations unknown, the distractions and comforting lies of the world fell away.

A man’s voice called out, faint on the wind. ‘FBI!’ Three pairs of eyes turned in sudden, shocked incomprehension, and recoiled…

_…In sudden fear and desperation…_

_…In the face of overwhelming despair and a strange sense of peace…_

_…Overcome with a last, desperate, wild hope…_

In the basement door appeared a pale phantom in dark clothes, hair and eyes wild with righteous purpose, effortlessly drifting aside at the thrown projectile…

_…Knowing the price if the deathly apparition discovered his true purpose, his true nature, determined to do anything, to anyone, to avoid such a fate…_

_…Knowing his life forfeit upon the appearance of the deathly apparition, yet blessed with one final chance to protect his heart from what would follow…_

_…Knowing the end had come, yet hoping still that somehow the deathly apparition might bring the nightmare to an end…_

And then it all dissipated, in a needless, senseless, fountain of blood…

Will snapped his head down and closed his eyes. _And death walked among them, dark and terrible, filled with malevolent purpose._

They had looked upon him and seen, not justice, not salvation, but death, destroyer of worlds, and they had not seen wrongly. They surely had not been the first to pay for Will’s blindness, his naivety. How many in New Orleans, elsewhere had he failed to save, through his stubborn refusal to open his eyes, and accept the road on which he walked. The age of the impartial lawman, justice incarnate, had long since past, or never was. The task before him, the task always before him, was to protect the world that was, not the world as he would have it be, and in that task he had singularly failed.

And what of the future? Would there, could there, be redemption? The FTRB offered immense opportunities, immense resources, but was clearly tinged with a darkness of its own, a darkness he did not understand.

And he might never. He thought back to the drive back to Baltimore, Jack trying to distract him. _‘Get some rest,’ he said, ‘Take a few days,’ ‘See the sights,’_ Clearly _not_ more than empty platitudes, no, his newfound colleagues had some business, some purpose that they would not yet share with him, and that he intruded on at his peril.

 _What now?_ He briefly considered visiting Beverly and playing with his dogs. The idea repulsed him, like a stinking bog. He didn’t want to sully them, stain them with Hobbs’ blood.

Looking up into the darkness, he could not bring himself to return to his lures, could not face the guaranteed hell of sleep. The stars demanded more.

 _Abigail._ Perhaps there was one he could save.

**Baltimore, MA — Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s Office**

Hannibal looked down at his appointment book, and at the next carefully cursived entry, and frowned. _Jeremy Beamish—2:30._ When the young Mr. Beamish first approached Hannibal with a business proposal, well, what could Hannibal say? Jeremy was under the wing of none other than Governor-General Andrew Casselden-Haywood, the universally acknowledged, respected, and most of all, _feared_ leader of Baltimore for over seventy years. It was only after, did he realize that Jeremy’s little ‘boutique art dealership’ was not only unsanctioned, but would draw severe consequences were it ever discovered.

So here they were, meeting under the guise of an appointment.

Hannibal rose to make a final check of his spacious office. From his desk in the middle of the room, he could look up and see the second story mezzanine, with its metal scrollwork railing, and walls of bookshelves. Across the room stood two large imposing windows, two stories tall, with red and white blocked curtains drawn tightly shut. In the space between his desk and window sat two leather chairs, facing each other. Various display cases and bookshelves were scattered about the office, giving it the appearance of a rather eccentric museum or old library.

With deft, precise, movements, he tossed a large black velvet cloth over a large display case, covering an assortment of religious artifacts. Part of him yearned to leave the display bare, and watch Jeremy squirm in its presence. But no, to inflict such a small hurt upon the man would accomplish nothing more but unnecessary anger.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. Preparations complete, he paced over. Turning its cold iron handle, he opened it carefully.

“Mr. Beamish. Good evening.”

“Hannibal.” The young man warmly acknowledged. He appeared to be in his mid to late 30’s, with slightly wavy black hair, neatly gelled back, and dark eyes. By all accounts, Beamish was conventionally handsome, in an overly polished sort of way. He had sought to accentuate this advantage with careful tailoring. Unfortunately, Beamish was barely as many years dead as he had been alive, and like many youths, Beamish suffered from an odd fascination with the color black. He had accentuated his very well-tailored (black) suit, with (black) patent leather shoes, a (black) narrow collared button down shirt, (black) skinny tie, (black) leather belt, (black) Apple watch, and even a (black) pocket square.

“Come in.” Hannibal replied, stepping aside to allow Jeremy to enter.

Beamish brushed past Hannibal. “ _Dad,_ ” the young man sarcastically drawled as he sprawled out onto one of the leather chairs in front of the windows, “Has instructed me to inform you that you’re to give a report to the Council on Crawford’s latest activities.” It was clear the young man was trying to mask _something_ with false bravado.

Hannibal tilted his head as he closed the door. “I see.” Hannibal evenly replied, curious to see how long such bravado would last.

 _Not very long,_ Hannibal observed as Beamish immediately started fiddling with his (black) onyx cufflinks. “But uh, first, we need to talk about how we’re going to fix the, you know, _problem._ ”

Internally, Hannibal sighed. He supposed it was unsurprising, to hear such words coming from a Knight of Philadelphia. Despite exceptional specimens such as the Governor-General, as a whole the order had advanced little beyond its feudal origins. While Hannibal appreciated the role the Knights played forming and maintaining the League of Concord, which now governed much of North America, he found their obsession with lineage and divine rights distasteful. Despite being a Count by birth, Hannibal had not been turned by one of the respectable few. _And that was all that mattered._ Yet, here _they_ were, coming to _him_ for help. Not that he’d receive any credit, of course.

Hannibal clenched his jaw. Yet, not only must he remain polite with Beamish, he had to continue working with him on this ill-conceived ‘art sourcing operation’. Beamish would not tolerate Hannibal’s disengagement now. He’d seen too much, done too much.

Beamish continued, “Clive Johnson insists there must be more paintings.”

Hannibal placed a hand on a glass display table and frowned. “Is he not aware that Garret Jacob Hobbs is dead?” His voice tinged with just the slightest sarcasm. “He did after all, _personally_ rip the man’s throat out.”

On further thought, Clive Johnson’s continued existence proved that it wasn’t just the Knights with a nepotism problem. Say what you would about the Knights, while they might tolerate the likes of Jeremy Beamish, at least they maintained a _veneer_ of sophistication. The same could not be said for Johnson. Sadly, as long as his patron sat on the Council, Johnson no doubt correctly, viewed himself as untouchable. _And to think his patron plays the populist reformer!_

Beamish loosened his skinny (black) tie. “He knows the girl survived, and he thinks she can make more.”

Hannibal remained impassive. It would not do for Miss Hobbs to become the target of a reckless thug like Clive Johnson. No, Will Graham’s attachment to her offered far too much promise. Instead, Hannibal simply said, “She is under FBI supervision.”

“Hence our _problem._ ” Beamish stressed, his leg nervously bouncing up and down. “If he get’s caught—“

Beamish did not need to finish. Hannibal knew all too well what would happen. Johnson would talk. Even though Hannibal only acted as a broker, generating leads and setting up introductions for Beamish and in turn, Johnson to follow up on, he had no patron, and was well aware how quickly he could become a political scapegoat. Fortunately for Hannibal, Beamish appeared yet to realize Hannibal’s vulnerability.

“What would _you_ propose we do?” Hannibal softly queried.

Beamish squirmed awkwardly. Clearly he’d hoped Hannibal would make the obvious suggestion. But, Hannibal had no intention of making this process easy. Finally, the young man caved. “He needs to go. We need to get rid of him.”

Hannibal glanced down at a pair of antique swords, only separated from his fingers by a few millimeters of very breakable glass. _It would be so simple…but no._ With Hobbs lost, and Crawford no doubt closing in on Johnson, Beamish was a substantial liability. But, sadly, Beamish was too prominent. Were Hannibal to simply _dispose_ of him, like he so properly deserved, the disappearance would be _noticed._ And they would not leave the investigation to a half-wit like Johnson.

He would have to take a more subtle approach.

Hannibal turned to look at the young man, allowing a slight, calculated tinge of shock to cross his face. “You propose to kill another of our kind? Without sanction?”

“Yeah, but what _father_ doesn’t _know_ , can’t hurt us.” Beamish sneered, fear leaking through his false bravado.

With difficulty, Hannibal quashed his feelings of bewildered contempt. _The sheer hubris of the man, to become squeamish when reminded of the League’s petty laws! It would be amusing, were it not so infuriating. The Knights’ very primacy stems from their involvement in Washington’s rebellion, and the League’s break from their European masters!_ Hannibal paused, a moment, making sure his mask of severe concern was in place, before replying, “How do you propose to accomplish such a deed?”

“Well, maybe together we could—“

“Johnson is no match for me.” Hannibal cut him off, forcing an expression of shocked outrage to cross his face. “Or for us together.” _Clive Johnson may be, at best, a petty thug, for all his bluster._ But, he did not want any possibility of direct evidence that could lead back to him. After all, even if Jeremy Beamish’s ‘father’ did not catch them, Crawford’s persistence at times could be quite trying.

“Well, perhaps—“

With a calculated furled brow of worry, Hannibal returned to pacing around the office. “I almost hesitate to bring this up, but my sources indicate that Crawford is investigating the Hobbs matter.”

“Fuck.”

Hannibal briefly closed his eyes at the swearword. _Really, Beamish, one cannot be so easily rattled._ Hannibal allowed the silence to linger, as Beamish nervously ran his hands through his black hair, quite ruining the gel effect.

“ _Okay, okay,_ I’ll think of something.” The young man abruptly rose and started towards the door. “We didn’t have this conversation. Oh, and remember 10 o’clock Sunday to brief _Daddy’s_ friends.”

With that, Beamish left. The need for performance having passed, Hannibal stood by his desk immobile and impassive, as he considered Beamish’s parting words. _Some see it an honor to attend Council. All the more fools they._ He had no wish to be part of that world, he was quite content with his small psychiatry practice, where he had complete control over who he saw, and what problems he deigned to recognize.

The steady clicking of heels broke his thoughts. Turning, he caught Bedelia Du Maurier elegantly attired in a brown herringbone skirt-suit, on the ladder from the mezzanine, mid-descent. He noted with amusement that the color of her suit perfectly matched his own brown plaid. She’d even gone so far as to coordinate her blouse, a bright red charmeuse, to match the details on Hannibal’s tie and pocket square. _So kind of her to be so considerate._

“Is it just me,” she asked, stepping off the ladder, “or does he become increasingly aggravating with each visit?” She stepped off the ladder onto the ground.

Hannibal didn’t respond verbally, turning to finish tidying his desk. _Beamish could barely conceal his activities from Casselden-Haywood. Even now, Crawford pursues Johnson, who can in turn, lead to Beamish and myself. But sever that link, and there would be no way to tie Johnson to me._

“For once I agree,” Bedelia said, slowly approaching, her black heels predatorily clicking on the wooden floor. “We must do something about him.”

Hannibal gave a slight nod, choosing to ignore Bedelia’s brazen reading of his thoughts. Papers aligned, he retrieved his coat. “What do you propose?” He asked, his eyes betraying a roguish smile.

Bedelia’s eyes darkened seductively as she approached him near the coat rack. “If Beamish tries to kill Johnson, he will fail.”

He reached for her coat, one of black mink fur. He watched as she slid her arms into it, and he helped wrap it around her. “Johnson may be dull, but even he understands that if he kills Jeremy Beamish, he would have to leave town. Quickly.”

“Solving _both_ our problems.” Bedelia responded with a dark smile. She looked up at him, her eyes a mischievous stormy grey, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

**Baltimore, MA — Johns Hopkins Hospital**

Calmly, quietly, Will entered the hospital room.

Abigail lay in the center, entombed within a mass of bandages and wires and cables, shrouded in white, her pale face serene as a marble statue carved upon the lid of an ancient mausoleum. Only the steady symphony of light and sound emerging from surrounding monitors betrayed that she still lived.

Will was relieved to see she had the room to herself. It simplified matters. As it was, the staff was already displeased to see him, without adding another patient and hangers on.

Closing the door behind him, Will made his way to the bed. A few minutes scrutiny sufficed to show that no immediate catastrophe lurked in her chart. He reached out toward her, slowly, hesitantly, before pulling away. He had not yet earned the privilege. Instead, he turned, crossed the room, and collapsed onto the dark blue couch across from the bed. 

**Lancaster, PA — Hobbs House — The Next Night**

_Almost there,_ Freddie thought as she trudged up the muddy hill behind Garret Jacob Hobbs’ house. _How the hell did they keep this mowed? Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to park a mile away and walk through the woods. If I wanted exercise I’d buy a gym membership. Or just call back that yummy Italian personal trainer._

The little FBI group had turned into a rather unexpected gold mine. _Nice new batch of readers from that ‘Taxidermist’s Last Stand’_ _article._ _Now to keep them._

_What to do next. I could focus on Brian Zeller: wanna be Casanova, and regular at one Galloping Whale bar…but no, I already did that article and there’s not much more there. I could focus on the group generally, and on this Jack Crawford. But then there’s Special Agent Will Graham, one man freak show and the juiciest target of them all. And that disgruntled paramedic was more than happy to sell me some oh so unflattering pictures._

Grinning, she thought of the picture of Graham, sitting on the back of an ambulance, covered in blood, blue eyes blood shot and glassy. _If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was shooting heroin._ She almost cackled, thinking up headlines. ‘ _You Should Have Seen The Other Guy’, ‘I’m From the Government And Here To Help’,_ and _‘This Is The Hero?’_

The best part was that the local police really seemed to have it in for Crawford. _The last time I had cops so willing to give me the goods was the time the Mayor of Baltimore announced an initiative to strengthen the Baltimore PD’s Inspector General._

The moonlight cast and eerie glint on the blazing yellow police tape encircling the house. _Do Not Cross,_ it screamed. _Eh,_ she shrugged as she ducked under the tape. _Rules are made to be broken._

 

 _Tactical Team White Board_ __  
Caption Contest!  
[Large Framed Picture of the Zeller Photo]  
I only had two beers! — Philip Langton  
Helloooo Laaaaadies — Jimmy Price  
This is your brain on tequila — Donald Thompson  
Don’t drink the punch — Megan King  
No the booze does not make you hotter — Jane Willingham  
I thought this was my living room… — Mark Sutton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed there's a power creep problem in Hannibal vampire fics, well Hannibal supernatural fics in general. Hannibal always ends up as THE OLDEST MOST POWERFUL creature around, which gets boring. I thought it would be interesting to see Hannibal in an actual society, where while he's King of his little corner, there is a hierarchy above him, and he has to at least pretend to play nice with others.
> 
> I wanted to emphasize that Hannibal had to work to get where he is. Sure, supernatural powers helped him along the way, and he has a lot of innate talents which make things easier for him, but unlike some others in Brethren society, he doesn't have a super powerful patron to help him. And, I think he finds those who just were given power and influence because of family connections, often undeserving, and has very little respect for such individuals. I think this one of the reasons he's drawn to people like Will, Abigail, Clarice. People who've had to work hard to overcome difficult backgrounds. What are your guys thoughts?
> 
> Also, if someone makes a photoshop version of the Zeller meme, I will totally buy you coffee or a cookie if you're in NYC.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and comments and feedback are super appreciated. You guys keep me writing!


	18. Chapter Seventeen

_“…Unfortunately the subject’s insecurities and co-dependent tendencies are increasing. While I remain optimistic that such impulses can be redirected, I fear it may prove impossible to eliminate them in their entirety.” —Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s confidential patient file on Jeremy Beamish_

 

**FTRB HQ — That Night**

Jack glared at his overflowing inbox. He appreciated that unlike the Army or regular FBI, Control didn’t endlessly dump busywork on him. Yet, his inbox still never seemed to empty. As usual, he was the last one in the office, the Science Team and Grounds crew having long gone home.

There was a sharp knock on his office door.

Jack looked up, happy at the reprieve. “Come in.”

“Jack,” Kurt Spurgen nodded in greeting. “Remember that vet we hired to keep watch on the Hobbs house? The one from the cemetery?”

Jack murmured in acknowledgement.

“We’re going to need to take a team back up. You’ll never guess who he just saw…”

**Baltimore MA — Johns Hopkins Hospital -- Elsewhere**

Will lay curled up on the hospital couch. Day merged into night, and night merged into day. The only constant was the painful glare of the fluorescent lights, and the eternal _beep…beep…beep_ of the monitors. It seemed to Will an oddly appropriate environment to await final judgment.

As he lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness in time with staff rotations, the same thoughts ran through his mind, again, and again. Bursting in without consideration, backup, the faintest glimmer of a plan…because of him, his impulsive detachment, his ‘vision’, his failure…because of him she hovered in the twilight between life and death, alone in the world. Her mother fallen to cancer, years ago. Her father fallen sacrificed on the alter of his failings. _Might it have been kinder had I simply shot her myself?_ _Or perhaps, better still, turned my weapon on the one truly responsible?_

 _She looks so peaceful, so pure, lying as if asleep in the clean, white, hospital bed. The induced coma, protection against brain damage they said. For all the good it did._ She survived her father, her father’s attacker, even him, but it looked like she might not survive their tender care. Will might not know much about medicine, but he knew more than they thought. He saw through their jargon, their obtuse acronyms—he knew what it meant. _Post-operative infection, treatment-resistant. Quiet, unremarkable, unremarked._ Cancer grabbed the headlines, but he knew the face of the true killer that lurked in hospitals—caused by that haughty, arrogance that led _them_ to believe themselves above basic hygiene, and in so doing condeming legions.

There were three light knocks on the hospital door. Will looked at the clock anxiously, then relaxed, _9:00 PM, Must be a nurse._ He settled back into the couch. _No need to engage, she’ll be happier to just do her job and go._

“Good evening, Will,” spoke a soft, slightly accented voice.

Will looked up sharply. Dr. Lecter stood in the doorway, his face pale and gaunt, his high cheekbones starkly pronounced in harsh, fluorescent light. He wore a dark blue, plaid, three-piece suit, pastel blue pocket square, and a matching paisley tie. Casually draped over one arm was a navy blue, woolen coat.

A slight, sad smile crossed the older man’s usually impassive face. “Not what you expected?”

“Dr. Lecter?” Will murmured, blearily, as the older man hung up his coat. Forcing himself up, Will blinked his eyes hard. _Yup, he’s still here. I’m not dreaming._ Will watched, still somewhat detached, as rather than immediately sitting down beside Will, Dr. Lecter approached Abigail’s bed, reached out, and retrieved the chart left there by the hospital staff. _Right,_ Will realized. _He was a surgeon._ As Will watched, Dr. Lecter carefully, silently, scrutinized the chart, before shifting his examination first to the assembled instruments, and then to Abigail herself. Finally, only after completing his silent inspection, did Dr. Lecter carefully settle into a chair across the room, adjacent to Abigail’s bed.

He gazed at Abigail in another, drawn-out moment, before turning his intense gaze onto Will. “You look terrible,” Dr. Lecter said, concern evident in his voice. “When did you last rest?”

Will looked down at the worn hospital couch. “I _have_ been resting.”

Dr. Lecter tightens his lips and minutely shook his head. “In a proper bed, Will. A shower. Real food.”

“I can’t leave her alone.” Will protested. _Not again._

“I’m here.” Dr. Lecter reassured, his voice calm and steady. “I’ll watch over her.”

“I just can’t leave her.” Will repeated quietly. _Not after what I’ve done._

Dr. Lecter sighed, turning back to Abigail. “If you insist, you may stay. But only if you sleep. She won’t be left alone. I am right here.”

Mumbling his thanks, Will curled up on the couch, and within minutes, drifted off.

**Lancaster, PA — Motel — Later That Night**

_The furnishings might even be the originals from the 1960’s,_ Freddie grimaced, standing in the doorway of her motel room, taking in the faded carpet, mauve walls, lime green curtains and mismatched furniture. Shrugging, she made her way inside. _When your expense account and savings account are one and the same, you can’t be too picky. At least it’s clean._ Closing the door, Freddie Lounds collapsed into the dark orange desk chair. _A day of good old-fashioned leg work,_ she thought, working off her red knee-high hiking boots. _How exhausting. But the pictures of that creepy basement were totally worth it._

Booting up her MacBook, she groaned. _Of course the wireless is down._ Groaning, she started looking on the wall for an Ethernet cable, and found none. _Right. 1960s. Damn it._ _I’ll deal with the cloud later,_ she grumbled, as she started importing the photos.

 _That’ll take a while,_ she thought, rising. She drew the faded lime green curtains closed, blocking the ground floor view of the parking lot. Turning, she retreated into the bathroom.

Sometime later, she emerged from her shower, and threw on a pair of pajamas. They were styled like men’s pajamas, shirt and pants, but was purple and trimmed with pink piping. Using the thin motel towel, she started drying her tangled red hair as she walked over to her laptop to check the download status. She frowned. Brow furled, she threw the towel over her shoulder and started checking the folders. Nothing. The photos from inside the house didn’t download.

Hunching over, she picked up her camera, and started tabbing through previous images. _Nothing._ The towel fell off her shoulder onto the floor. Even the photos of the house exterior were missing. She checked the chip. It was in place. _Did I take any photos at all? Did I leave the lens on? No, I just saw them!_

With mounting paranoia, she turned to look around the room, scanning for anything out of place. She checked the door. It was still latched from the inside. She checked the closet. Empty. Pacing around the room, she felt a slight breeze ripple through the curtains. She froze. _That was definitely closed._ Slowly, she approached the window, before violently pulling back the hideous lime green cloth. The ground floor window was cracked open.

Hesitantly, she took a step back, and stopped as her bare feet squelched in something. She looked down, at a small wet puddle of mud on the dingy grey carpet. Slowly, she lifted her foot in disgust.

"FBI! OPEN UP!” A man bellowed, pounding on the door.

Scurrying over, she hurried with the latch, flung it open, and was immediately grabbed by two men in full SWAT gear. Their faces were obscured by the black helmets. Like she weighed nothing, they threw her on the bed and handcuffed her hands behind her back. _What the fuck_. _What the fuck. Who the fuck,_ was all she could think as she struggled to turn her head and see. A third mook entered the room, armed with what looked like a large black shotgun, and quickly started sweeping the room.

“Closet—clear! Bathroom—clear!” The mook shouted.

Freddie squirmed, but she couldn’t break free from the two men’s hold.

“All clear!” The mook shouted.

From the corner of her eye, Freddie saw domineering black man, wearing a trench coat and fedora enter the room. She recognized him as Agent Jack Crawford. He was even more imposing in person than in the few photos she’d seen.

Mustering all her courage, Freddie shouted, “What are you doing?!” Her eyes darting from Crawford, the two goons, and the window. While the window was large, Crawford certainly couldn’t fit through it.

“I read your article.” Crawford tersely replied. “ _Very_ irresponsible.”

“Freedom of the press!” Freddie snapped back. _Maybe the smaller of the two goons?_

“Perhaps.” Crawford nodded at the two goons, who promptly relaxed their hold.

With an undignified squirm, she managed to rotate herself and pull herself into a sitting position on the end of the bed. Her foot still felt covered in quickly drying mud.

Meeting Crawford’s gaze, she did not like the gleam in his eyes as he patiently waited. In return, she could barely control her glare of hatred.

Crawford started, walking over to the desk, “Multiple witnesses place you at the Hobbs house earlier this evening. You tampered with a Federal crime scene. That’s a felony.” With a click, he snapped her MacBook shut. “I’ll take this.” He picked up her camera, “and this.”

Momentarily, she was glad she left her iPhone in her jacket pocket, which was currently under a pile of dirty clothes next to the suitcase.

Crawford started flipping through her camera. His dark brows furled. “Did you delete any photos?”

“No!” She barked back, rage building up inside. _Fuck you! First you break into my room, then you come back and act like you didn’t know! Who do you think you’re fooling!_ Images of the smaller goon repelling down the side of the building, or climbing up the ledge and into her room flashed through her mind.

Ignoring her response, Jack addressed the goons. “Rankin, Langton, we’re done here. Un-cuff her.” He turned to the mook who had eagerly torn through the motel room, and handed the camera and laptop to him. “Sutton, take these.”

As soon as Freddie’s hands were free, she started to massage her wrists. Figuring she didn’t have much to lose, she spread her hands out in an open gesture and said in a placative voice, “I’m not the one you’re looking for, so why alienate me? I can _help_ you.”

Crawford looked at her with a face mixed with scorn and derision. “We don’t talk to reporters.” He started to leave, stopped, turning back. “When you want to discuss where you get your ‘tips’, here’s my card.” He placed a white business card down on the desk. His face reverted to its scowl. “Until then, _leave us alone_.” Abruptly, he reached into his coat, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it in her direction. She barely caught it. “Warrant.” He growled out, before storming out of the room, the others silently following.

Freddie sat there for a moment, before walking to the desk and looking at the card. It was a simple, standard government-issued, with the FBI seal emblazoned beside the name. _Well fuck you Jack,_ Freddie almost hissed. _You fuck with my photos, I fuck with your pet Graham._

***

Will found himself standing on the banks of a cold river, the water rushing over his feet. The bright, clear, silvery light of the full moon reflected in the rippling stream, dancing along the surface as the water ebbed and flowed. He felt himself rush forward, into the river, becoming part of the river, its refreshing spray dancing across his legs, consuming them. As the water rose to his waist, he could hear a dull roaring growing in his ears.

He let himself drift with the current. As he watched, the water turned dark, and began to bubble and churn, as _something_ stirred. Slowly rising from the water’s inscrutable depths, pale and bright beneath the moonlight, _she_ rose. A lithe form, a monument, a sacrifice, emerging slowly from the inky waters, glowing in the moonlight.

Cassandra.

Cassandra Boyle.

She floated for a time, just above the surface of the water. Then, suddenly, Will felt a looming presence, first distant, but growing ever closer. Then it was there, a shadow, cutting across the waters, twisting and distorting in the moonlight. The shadow grew larger, larger, finally resolving into the form of something dark, serpentine, slithering around him. It pressed at his waist, coiled about him, forcing the waters away.

And then it was gone, and Cassandra with it. The bright silvery moonlight returned, once again shining bright and pure across the dark, rippling waters. Without turning, without looking, he knew he stood on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. He could smell it in the air, feel it in the water. A sense of safety settled around him, and he felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. He inhaled, long and deep, the muddy waters flowing over his senses.

From a distance, he started to make out a soft, but growing melody. It called to him, called him home. Will found himself drawn forward again, flowing slowly towards the water, into the water, the beckoning music growing ever richer as he flowed inexorably further, and further from the shore. The water rose to his waist, his chest, finally over his mouth and nose. He fell forward, towards the inky depths and flickering lights within…

Will jerked awake, spluttering and coughing, to find himself once again in Abigail’s hospital room. Eyes darting wildly around, he was relieved to see Dr. Lecter still sitting by her side.

Turning in alarm, Dr. Lecter asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Will panted, his chest heaving. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. “Bad dream. I’m fine.” He felt something warm and heavy against his skin. Looking down, he saw a blanket draped over him. _Dr. Lecter…_

Dr. Lecter quirked an eyebrow, but did not inquire further. Turning back to Abigail, he began mopping her brow with a damp washcloth.

Will glanced at the cover of the book in the good doctor’s lap. _Frankenstein._ Glancing at the clock on the wall, Will was surprised to see that it was almost three in the morning. “You’re still here?” Will asked in surprise.

Dr. Lecter turned back to Will, with a small twist of a smile. “You say that as if you expected me to leave.” The man softly chided. “I said I would remain, did I not?”

“Yeah, but I figured…” Will drifted off. It was late, and he was sure Dr. Lecter was very busy man. “Don’t you have appointments tomorrow?”

Dr. Lecter dipped the washcloth in a glass of ice water on the bedside table, and said with finality, “One of the benefits of the medical education. One quickly learns to function on little sleep.” Taking the hint, Will watched silently as the doctor tenderly dabbed cold water on Abigail’s forehead.

Finally Will asked, “Any improvement?”

“Her fever spiked again.”

Will frowned, more guilt piling up inside. He knew there was little he could do. She would either wake up or…the other option was inconceivable.

Sensing Will’s discomfort, Dr. Lecter spoke. “They say those in a coma enter a dream state—that they can hear the world around them, yet they cannot interact. Perhaps she knows that we are here.”

“So…you’re reading her _Frankenstein_?” Will looked at him incredulously.

“A favorite of mine in my youth. Did you know Frankenstein is not the monster, but the man who created him?”

“I’d heard that. Haven’t read it. Do you think she’ll wake up?” Will knew he looked desperate, but he clung to any sliver of hope. _He’s a doctor, maybe he’ll know…_

“Do I detect a sense of guilt?”

Will suppressed a dry chuckle. _If it wasn’t obvious…_

Dr. Lecter spoke softly. Will could see a gentle tenderness in the furls around the man’s eyes. “Never guilt, Will, never guilt. No matter what follows, you should be proud of what you’ve done.”

“Pride?” Will swallowed back a throaty scoff. _Why? When I close my eyes, all I can see is the desperation in Hobbs’ eyes, in that man’s eyes, in Abigail’s eyes. Desperation, despair, and anger, caused by my arrival, repeating across three faces, followed by so much blood, gushing forth like a river. No. Not pride._

“Yes,” The man affirmed, gently but firmly. “Pride. You saved her life. You stopped a killer, saving untold others. Many dream of accomplishing such a feat.”

Will couldn’t help but laugh, dark and bitter. “Look at her.” He closed his eyes. “If I wasn’t there, if I had just _waited._ ” _If I wasn’t there, she would still have a family._

“Had you not arrived when you did, the other man surely would have killed them both. Or, even if for some reason he did not, she would have died to her father’s hand, and soon. _You_ saved her.”

 _Is it true?_ Will tried to force himself to take a step back. He knew he was too emotionally tied up. _From the moment her father started killing those girls, Abigail lived on borrowed time. Yet, how does the other man fit in?_ The interloper’s wide, terrified eyes leapt unbidden into Will’s mind, forever frozen in the instant where his gaze met Will’s.

 _What did he see?_ Will thought. _What did he see?_ Will shook his head. _Hospital. Abigail. Right._

“But, what if she’s…” Will couldn’t, wouldn’t finish the sentence. _Saying it out loud might make it real._

The doctor spoke slowly, laying out his observations. “You fear she’ll remain like this, forever trapped between life and death. That hope is futile. And yet another part of you, a part you despise, thinks that death may be preferable to her current state.”

Will’s eyes widened in panic. _Death is not preferable to life. Death is not an option._ Will repeated the mantra as if it were a shield. But as he did, he knew, and he knew that Dr. Lecter knew.

Will forced himself to meet the man’s gaze.

The man’s voice was steady, his maroon eyes aflame with compassion. “Her current state is far preferable to death. So long as she draws breath, hope remains. Her potential remains.”

Will was genuinely surprised by the man’s reaction. It was as if he was able to see into Will’s head, yet he didn’t run, or reject him. Will was confused. Alana would be horrified to even know that such a thought crossed Will’s mind.

Dr. Lecter inclined his head. “The uncertainty is what plagues you.” He calmly observed. “But isn’t Schrödinger’s cat preferable to dead certainty?”

“I suppose.” Will tersely responded, exhaustion flooding back over him. He wasn’t sure how to react. There was a calmness to Dr. Lecter Will found reassuring. Yet, and Will did not forget, could not forget, the man was still tainted by his profession.

The doctor turned back to apply a cold washcloth to Abigail’s forehead once more. “You must remain hopeful. The only time death would be preferable is when everyone gives up hope for Abigail Hobbs. But I have hope.” His eyes flicked back to Will. “Don’t you?”

*******

Hannibal looked at the time. It was almost morning. Bedelia would be cross if he stayed out any later. Tucking the bookmark into his worn copy of _Frankenstein,_ he looked at Abigail, peacefully lying in bed, wet washcloth lying on her forehead. Strange, how blissfully unaware she seemed of the fever consuming her from the inside, quite literally burning her up.

He’d planned to leave only when Will awoke. He didn’t want Will to feel abandoned, or worry about Abigail’s safety. But tonight, he just couldn’t bring himself to wake the man.

He looked at Will, at his angelic face with his messy brown curls, asleep on the couch. His blanket was gathered under his chin, not unlike Bernini’s famed statue. Hannibal closed his eyes, cementing the image in his memory.

He rose to his feet and walked over to Will. Carefully adjusting the thin blue blanket, he enjoyed this novel feeling of affection. He gave them one last look as he picked up his coat and readied to leave. Looking back, he felt the briefest pang of sadness. In her current state, Abigail would not last much longer. Gazing back to Will’s sleeping form, he thought how her death would devastate the man. _Would he be awake, present for her demise? Or would she just pass silently into the night, him only to discover when the nurses wake him? Or would one day he just return to the hospital to find an empty room?_

He stood in the doorway, coat in hand. _Bedelia won’t be pleased, but perhaps it’s time to take more extreme measures._

He put down his coat, and turned to walk back towards Abigail. Standing over her, he brushed a stray hair back from her forehead. One hand lightly caressing her cheek, he pulled a scalpel out his coat pocket. _Just enough to cure the infection, nothing more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun!! *dramatic music*. What is Hannibal doing? Bedelia is going to be /so/ thrilled. I do have to say, I think the hospital scene is one of my favorites so far.
> 
> Bernini's statue that Hannibal refers to is the Sleeping Hermaphroditus. What that says about Hannibal, I'll leave it to you.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleeping_Hermaphroditus
> 
> Next week: What has Hannibal done to Abigail?
> 
> Thank you guys for reading! Your comments keep me writing! See you in two weeks!


	19. Chapter Eighteen

 

_“…Clearly it cannot be a coincidence that the targeted girls share an uncanny resemblance to Abigail Hobbs. Unfortunately such questions will have to remain unanswered until she awakens from her coma.” —Excerpt from Tattle.crime.com_

_“…While I find Will’s devotion to the Hobbs girl admirable, until she awakens I fear he will remain in an unfortunate stasis. Accordingly it is necessary to resort to unconventional measures. I await his next actions with deep interest…” —Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s Notes on the Development of Will Graham_

 

**Lancaster, PA — Motel — Next Morning**

_Coffee. I. Need. Coffee._ Freddie groaned, hazily stumbling towards the door to her motel room. She’d slept fitfully, waking every couple hours with a racing heart and an ominous feeling someone was in the room. She’d sorely considered trying to transfer, or even drive back to Baltimore early, but by the time Crawford left, reception had long since closed, leaving behind only a clueless high school dropout to man the front desk.

With a groan, she opened the door…and was sorely tempted to just close it again, dive back under the sheets, and try again tomorrow morning. The cloudy grey sky blocked the sun, creating a rainy hell, puking buckets of misery down onto the swampy mess of the motel parking lot.

 _Of all times not to bring a raincoat. But, I really need that coffee._ She eyed the Denny’s across the street. _Shit._ Sprinting to her car, she clicked the button on her keys, ready to dive into the driver’s seat. She heard the doors of her Forrester _lock._ She froze, suddenly not even noticing the rain… _I could have sworn I locked it last night…_ Hesitantly opening the driver’s door, she peered around. The usual junk was still there, a water bottle, some candy wrappers in the cupholders, a pair of bright red stilettos on the front passenger’s floor. Nothing had moved. Though, it wasn’t like she kept anything valuable in the car. She checked the backseat. Nothing. She was about to turn away, when she saw a small black object on the floor. Cautiously peering closer, she saw it was a notebook. A small, black notebook that she’d _never_ seen before.

_Fuck._

Freddie scrambled into the backseat of the car, careful not to disturb the notebook. Hands shaking, she retrieved a pair of bright red, elbow-length gloves from the passenger side seat pocket, put them on, and picked up the notebook.

Careful not to get it wet, she flipped it open. The first few pages seemed to be a contact list of sorts. _Ricky Rike, Jeremy Beamish, Nika Rykova…no one I know, at least._

Flipping forward, she found some scrawled out numbers, an informal ledger of sorts. She kept flipping. The numbers turned into notes. Detailed notes, about paintings, and Garret Jacob Hobbs. _That Jeremy Beamish guy keeps showing up as well._ A loose photo started to fall out. Turning to that page, she was confronted with a photo of Will Graham. _Her_ photo of Will Graham, printed out from _her_ website. Scrawled on the back in chunky letters were the words, _‘What is he?’._

She realized she was holding her breath. Part of her wanted to drop the book, put it back, pretend she never saw it. This was way over her head. But _something,_ some deep urge, kept pushing her forward. She inhaled sharply. The last page was filled with notes about _her_. _Her_ car, _her_ license plate number, what she did at the Hobbs house, where she was staying, what _room_ she was in.

Her fear turned into a burning white hot rage. _Who do they think they are?! One does not just stalk Freddie Lounds!_ Exhaling, she started to come up with a plan. _Guess I’m staying another night. But first, I’m going to need a motion detector, a video camera, and a Polaroid camera. Oh, yeah, and somewhere safe to spend the night._

She returned the notebook to the floor. _Maybe Crawford wasn’t the one who deleted those photos…Guess it’s time to find out._

**Baltimore, MA — Johns Hopkins Hospital — That Morning**

“You have to leave now!” Abigail flinched as the man, Mr. Johnson, yelled at her father.

“This is my house! You can’t just show up! We have a life!” Her father bellowed back, waving a knife and moving to shield her from the other man.

Abigail had never liked Mr. Johnson. He always acted superior, always wanted to be in charge, in control. She’d seen him arrogant, seen him crass, seen him rude, even seen him try to be funny. But she’d never seen him _scared_ before. Then, shortly after she’d come downstairs, he’d checked his phone, and _really_ lost it.

Everything had been so normal. She’d started cleaning up after dinner with her father, when Johnson showed up. He and her father then went downstairs, while she finished up. Suddenly, shouting. Before she knew it, she was running downstairs. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe she was worried about her father, maybe she thought she could calm them down, maybe she was just curious. Whatever she’d expected it hadn’t been _this._

Abigail slunk back, backing up to the large work bench along the basement wall. Slowly, without turning, she picked up her knife, hoping the shadows cast by the sole overhead lamp distracted Johnson from her actions.

“You’re coming with me! Now!” Johnson shouted, taking a half-step toward her father.

Suddenly, the door flew open with a crash. All three turned in shock to stare at the newcomer, a wild-eyed man with messy brown hair, and a khaki green jacket. He stood in the doorway, with a badge around his neck. “FBI!” he shouted, gun drawn.

_No…_

It was a blur. Her father’s warm arm around her. Her father’s knife sinking into her shoulder and neck. Stumbling back into the wall, and sliding down. A voice, her voice, screaming far away. A heavy weight on top of her. Her father? Gasping, each breath harder than the last. Something warm and wet and sticky oozing through her clothing…the room fading in and out with each breath as she gasped for air…

…Still gasping, struggling to breathe. Something was caught in her throat. Instinctively, Abigail tried to push herself up and away, to escape. But before gaining and inch, she collapsed in exhaustion, falling back into _a bed?_ Coughing and spluttering, wracked with pain, she struggled for breath. _Calm down, calm down,_ she thought, forcing herself to examine her surroundings.

She lay on a bed in the middle of an over-lit, dull grey room. _A hospital?_ Glancing down toward her arm, she saw a bundle of tubes and lines leading out of her, into a bank of beeping machines.

Sprawled back on the bed, she inhaled slowly. _I survived. But…where am I?_ It wasn’t any hospital she recognized. _And where are the police? Am I under arrest? Where’s dad?_ She checked both arms again. _At least I’m not cuffed to the bed…_

*******

The trap was set. Now to wait. As the sun started to settle low on the horizon, Freddie Lounds reviewed the actions of the past few hours. _Polaroid pictures of each page of the notebook, in duplicate, safely stashed in two separate places? Check. Makeup and knickknacks placed on the windowsill? Check. Discreet, super-creepy motion sensor and hidden camera set up in the car? Check. (And Mike, seriously, you need to get better hobbies)._

_Now, alcohol. Definitely alcohol. And people. I don’t want to be alone and easily disappear-able tonight._

**FTRB HQ — VIP Room**

_Buzz, Buzz, Buzz._ Blinking, Will peered at the clock on the bedside table, dimly glowing in the darkened room. _7:23. Night already._

He vaguely remembered stumbling home just before noon, and collapsing into bed. _I guess Dr. Lecter was right._ _I did need sleep._

 _Buzz, Buzz, Buzz._ The continued vibrations shook Will out of his thoughts. Floundering, he fumbled on the bedside table, retrieving the tenaciously vibrating phone.

“Hey kiddo.” Will recognized Beverly’s cheerful voice. “Thought you’d want to know—Abigail Hobbs woke up.”

Will sat bolt upright, and with slipping hands, turned on the lamp on the bedside table. “Thanks Beverly.” Will muttered, abruptly hanging up the phone. His mind raced, the last vestiges of sleep blown away by the magnitude of the unexpected news. While he’d desperately hoped she’d awaken, he hadn’t dared think it would come so soon. Tossing aside the covers, Will grabbed the morning’s clothes from the floor and threw them on in a mad rush to the door, barely pausing to scoop up his glasses, wallet, badge, and gun.

Then, hand on the doorknob, Will paused.

To the side, just visible through the open bathroom door, he saw a wild man, unshaven, brown hair jutting out in all direction, plaid shirt wrinkled, face heavily lined with exhaustion or madness. Closing his eyes, he could see himself, as she would see him, had seen him, bursting into the basement, eyes ablaze.

It would not do for her to see him again as she had that night.

Slowly, reluctantly, Will released the door handle, and shedding his clothes, made his way toward the shower.

**Near FTRB Compound — Jimmy Price’s House — That Night**

_It really was a hell of a thing when this changed from ‘saving the world’ to ‘just a job’._ John Rankin thought as he strode out of the compound. _Guess I’m just getting old._ The air was brisk, the early spring starting to peak out from beyond the crisp blanket of cold.

Turning left, Rankin walked quickly along the side of the paved road, passing by a playground. Walking down a long gravel driveway, he approached Jimmy’s house. It was a small, two story white farmhouse, just like most of the homes in the neighborhood. It had a small porch out front, a larger porch out back, and a white picket fence separating it from the sprawling landscape. Rambling weeds and vines crept around the side of the house, the remnants of Jimmy’s long-past foray into gardening.

Opening the creaky fence gate, Rankin walked up a neat stone path to the door. Before he could knock, a knee-high, brown dog snuffled around the corner, part German Shepherd, the rest purebred American mutt. Seeing Rankin, it stopped in its tracks, and barked excitedly.

The door opened, and Jimmy Price ambled out, dressed in a worn red sweater and casual slacks. “Simon, is something the—oh! Good to see you!” Jimmy exclaimed upon seeing Rankin, “Come on in, Donald’s already here.” Rankin followed Jimmy inside, Simon pattering along behind them.

As they entered the house, Rankin was, as usual, assaulted by the unmistakable scents of Jimmy’s many pets and their food, water, and whatnot. Jimmy led Rankin past two bird cages in the kitchen and into the living room. It always baffled Rankin how Jimmy lived with the constant tweeting, meowing, barking, and other strange animal noises. _That’s one downside when Jimmy hosts Liquor Friday, all the pets get to say hi._ Rankin had considered inviting them to the duplex he shared with Philip Langton, but well, _Langton._

Inside the living room, a small fire crackled away. In front of the fire stood a low coffee table, featuring a bottle of Jim Beam Devil’s Cut, and several glasses. Around the table, facing the fire sat several comfortable brown leather armchairs. In one of the chairs, sat Dr. Donald McCusker, who was using a laser pointer to lead a pair of cats in a merry chase around the room. He wore a tidy blue shirt, dark red suspenders, and a dark red and maroon striped bow tie. He’d removed his customary tweed jacket, draping it carefully over the back of his chair, and was using a laser pointer to lead a pair of cats on a merry chase around the room. _It’s a shame he’s getting older,_ Rankin thought. Though he was older than even Tom Hubble, whenever retirement came up, his response was always the same. He’d leave the job feet-first, or not at all.

“Donald,” Rankin said, as he made his way to a chair of his own. A grey cat jumped up into his lap. _Though, I guess, even hung over, Langton’s not this bad._ But, the last thing Rankin wanted was for Langton to encourage Price to start downing shots.

“Jay, good to see you. Those young punks not giving you too much trouble? Finally get that grenade thing sorted?”

Rankin groaned. “God, I hope so. Not that any of them will admit it, which isn’t stopping Bowman from spazzing out.” With a nod of thanks, he accepted a glass of his own from Jimmy. “You do your best to run ‘em ragged, and they still find the time to get up to this shit.”

“I bet Langton’s involved.” Jimmy interjected, settling into a seat of his own.

Rankin shook his head. “Nah, or if he is, someone put him up to it. It’s too subtle for him. Langton goes for simple pranks, bucket of water over the door, hot sauce in your drink, that sort of thing. No, my money’s on King or Willingham—you know what those girls are like. Maybe even Casey, if he did something to piss her off again…” Rankin drifted off as the grey cat started climb up his arm and onto his head.

“Fiona,” Jimmy tutted, rising and taking the cat away. “Jay is not a tree.” He carefully placed the cat back down on the ground.

Donald turned to Jimmy, “What about you, how’s the lab these days? Haven’t gotten down there near enough lately, what with one thing and another.”

“Ugh. We’re still sorting out our haul from New Orleans. Jack’s been keeping us overtime.” Jimmy groaned, as a grey cat jumped up into his lap.

Rankin was skeptical. “He let Graham in on that?”

“God no. Graham isn’t even around.” Jimmy laughed. “That’s the only reason _we’re_ able to work on this. No, he spends all day and night at the hospital with the Hobbs girl and that Dr. Lecter.”

At that, Donald stiffened. _Odd, that, Donald having such a strong reaction. Maybe it’s a professional thing?_

_***_

Donald McCusker frowned at the mention of Dr. Lecter. In hindsight, he realized that he’d been unfair to the man in Lancaster. _Not like us Federales are usually in the habit of deferring to civvies at all, much less on ops. I suppose I was just disappointed. I just don’t see why Bloom raves about him. There’s something just off about him, though I can’t put my finger on it. A coldness perhaps? Maybe something about his eyes? But it’s more than that._

“Oh dear, this looks juicy,” Jimmy said, leaned forward, absentmindedly stroking a white cat.

Looking up, Donald was surprised to see Jimmy and Jay had both focused their attention on him.

With a slight frowned, Donald shook his head. “I’m just not sure Dr. Lecter is the best influence.”

“At least he’s talking to _someone_?” Jimmy asked weakly, ”Gotta count for something, right?”

“Perhaps…” Donald pressed his lips together distastefully. “Until now, Graham’s entire life, and career has been sharply constrained. He needs someone who’ll help him set his own limits. Instead, Lecter eggs him on.”

“But he’s a psychiatrist—he wouldn’t do anything harmful, would he?” Jimmy asked, his tone then dropping, more serious. “How’s his evaluation going?”

Donald grinned tightly. “Jack’s certainly become more… _lenient_ in his old age.”

Jimmy snorted. “Lenient. You _were_ there he started eating the crime scene!”

“What?!” Jay spluttered, almost spilling his drink.

Donald touched the temples of his wireframe glasses and closed his eyes. “At the time, I thought it was funny…” Looking at Jay, he added, “At Dickinson, Graham determined the time of death with his mouth.”

This did nothing for the look of confusion and horror on Jay’s face as he looked back and forth between the two older men.

Jimmy’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “What are you going to do when he fails? I mean, he’s not going to _pass_ the eval… _right?”_

There was an eerie silence that crossed over the room. Finally Donald spoke. “Jack won’t be pleased.”

“So then what?” Jay asked, concern evident in his voice.

Donald shrugged. “He’s seen too much. Too perceptive.”

Jimmy leaned back, his face suddenly very serious. “So…the Mountain Facility.”

Donald pressed his lips together again, but didn’t refute him. He didn’t much care for Dr. Fredrick Chilton, or his ‘Facility’, and didn’t take lightly the prospect of sending _anyone_ there, but what could they do? Put him in a holding cell? They didn’t have any other way of keeping him on base, not against his will, not indefinitely. And after everything Will had seen, they couldn’t risk him running off, going to the press, or going vigilante.

“Well, Sutton came out fine.” Jimmy weakly smiled.

“That took years of psychiatric treatment.” Jay shook his head. “And it still bothers him more than he lets on. I mean we’d _all_ have lingering issues if we spent our teenage years as some vamp’s brainwashed thrall.”

The silence stretched on, uncomfortably. Finally Jimmy spoke up, with forced lightheartedness, “Well Jack’s going to be disappointed. He was thinking of putting Graham on the Chesapeake Ripper case.”

Donald and Jay groaned. Jack’s obsession with the Ripper was legendary. Sometime before he’d even joined the FTRB, he’d managed to get some trainee killed by the Ripper, and despite all evidence, the man was absolutely convinced that the Ripper was a vampire.

 _I’ll have to talk to Beverly on Monday._ _There must be some way to make him see sense, or failing that, distract him._ Donald knew his life had grown substantially easier after she’d joined the team. For all he respected the Jack, Donald knew Jack had an unfortunate tendency to obsess over the damnedest things, and those obsessions sometimes led him to _very strange_ places. _And it’s up to Beverly and me to bring him back when he does._ She’d only been with them for four years, but Donald couldn’t imagine the FTRB without her. _God, if anything happened to Jack, command might fall to Tom in the short run. Or me, God help me. But in the long run, it’d be on her._

“Even _I_ know there’s no evidence the Ripper’s a vampire.” Jay groused. “You’d make a better argument for a shifter, or a demon, not that there’s really any evidence for that either. But a vampire? Bah! He doesn’t even drain his victims’ blood! Anyway, we’ve got _real_ problems.”

“Like whoever’s been flipping cars down by the bars.” Jimmy piped up.

“Yeah,” Jay replied. “Or that sick son of a bitch who did that girl in the stream. Stuff like that, it really gets to you.” Jay took a long drink. “My daughter Becky is almost her age.”

“How’s she?” Donald asked.

Jay sighed, and refilled his drink. “I don’t fucking know. I get letters sometime, but God knows. Dustin should be about 14 now.”

“That’s good.” Donald said. “Did you send that email?”

“Not yet.” Jay sighed. “What can I do? Bitch of an ex-wife keeps me from seeing them, and now they’re all the way over in Colorado. Even if she’d let me, it’s not like I could get out there to visit them.”

Jimmy nodded sympathetically, and took a sip. “You could take a vacation?”

“And what? Bring them here? I have no place to go.” Jay replied bitterly. He sighed. “Well, what can you say. That’s what happens when ya’ get married at 19 to someone you knew for three months.”

“Wouldn’t know.” Jimmy shrugged.

Jay snorted, and leaned back into the chair, chin out. “Good for you. Stay single. If you ever think of getting married, just buy a house and car for a woman you hate. Save yourself some time and frustration.”

**Baltimore, MA— Johns Hopkins Hospital — That Night**

Will Graham cautiously approached Abigail Hobbs’ hospital room. He’d double and triple checked his appearance and grooming before leaving the FTRB, in the car mirror outside, and again in the bathroom down the hall. His hair was neatly combed, his face was cleanly shaven, and he wore fresh clothes. Still, he was nervous. He knew he needed to atone, to protect her, from near or afar, whether she wanted him to or not. But, he had no idea what to say.

 _Get a grip,_ he told himself, adjusting his heavy black framed glasses. He’d survived the impossible before in that dark New Orleans alley, and again in Abigail’s own basement. He could survive a teenage girl.

Finally, Will opened the door.

Abigail lay in the bed, a pale, weary face, framed by loose, dark hair, against a sea of white sheets, bare walls, and ominous machines. She looked both better, and worse, than he’d expected. However, she was not alone. Will was surprised to see Alana Bloom in the room as well.

Alana looked quite good. Her long black was curled in large, soft, waves, which nicely framed her face, soft and tender with concern. It was a very different side of her than he usually saw at work. She wore a pretty red and white patterned knit dress, which clung to her in a very attractive way.

“Will!” Alana exclaimed, turning, “Come in.”

Will silently nodded to Alana, before turning stiffly toward Abigail. “I’m Will Graham. You probably don’t remember but—“ Will abruptly stopped, unsure of what to say.

“Oh, _I_ remember.” Abigail replied, looking at Will warily.

Will felt his heart drop.

***

“…But you see, I didn’t want that to happen. Your dad wasn’t supposed to…” Will Graham trailed off awkwardly. Abigail Hobbs lay propped up in the hospital bed, as Will Graham droned on and on. She’d long stopped paying attention, instead focusing intently on a patch of wall behind and just above the head of the unwelcome intruder. It was taupe. _Why do they always make hospitals taupe?_ She thought. She knew her father was dead, but to have it confirmed felt like a punch to the gut.

While Will droned on, Alana Bloom sat beside him on the couch opposite her bed. She appreciated that Alana, a slender, nervous looking woman, was trying to be friendly, but Abigail really just wanted to be left alone.

Will really wasn't like the FBI agent she expected, the one who burst into their basement, wild hair, eyes burning with righteous purpose. _God dammit,_ she thought wryly, _none of this had to happen. Between the three of us, we could have totally taken him. Hell, I could probably have taken him alone._

Finally, he trailed off. Abigail didn’t know whether he’d finally realized she wasn’t listening, or just run out of justifications. Either way, she didn’t care.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

“Anyway,” Alana finally interjected, adjusting her seat on the couch, and bumping into Will. “Abigail, what were you saying earlier? About music?”

Abigail almost burst out laughing as she watched Will recoil from Alana’s unintentional contact. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d watched them drift together, drift apart, make contact, recoil. _Seriously, I’m here on what was nearly my death bed, and they’re flirting? God, it’s like something out of middle school._

"Hmm?" Abigail realized she missed what Alana had said. _Maybe I should just suggest they get a room. At this time of night, there has to be an empty maintenance closet, bathroom. Anything, as long as it is somewhere else._

"I think you were saying something about Lana Del Ray?"

A light knock saved Abigail from responding. "Come in!" She eagerly called, hoping for even a nurse or doctor, even a janitor. _Someone_ to interrupt this.

Instead, the door swung open, to reveal an elegant man with smoothed back blonde hair, and with a face that looked like it was stolen from a particularly chiseled Greek statue. With a slight twinkle in his eye he addressed Will. "I came as soon as I could."

Abigail was intrigued by his clothing. He looked like someone from _Suits_ had raided the _White Collar_ wardrobe for something less boring. And he had the singular distinction of being the first man she’d ever seen in real life that made a suit look good. And, he moved with a confidence and grace she associated with the likes of James Bond.

The man turned his attention to her. “You must be the young Miss Hobbs.”

“And you are?” Abigail almost drawled, feigning boredom.

“Dr. Lecter.”

“You don’t _look_ like a doctor.” Her eyes scanned his blue plaid three piece suit, noting the matching blue paisley tie and pocket square. “No offense, it’s a good thing.”

What might have been a faint flicker of amusement crossed his face, but it passed too quickly for her to be certain. “None taken.” He smoothly approached and sat down _very_ close to Will, ignoring the other chair beside her bed. “Will, I’m pleased to see you’re in such good health, you looked most unwell when I last saw you.”

Abigail suppressed a snort of laughter as Will, seemingly subconsciously, shifted in his seat away from Dr. Lecter. However, this movement caused him to bump into Alana, which in turn caused him to recoil and then bump into Dr. Lecter. Caught between the two like a rather unfortunate ping pong ball, Will abruptly rose and began pacing about, showing a sudden and intense interest in the linoleum floor. Abigail suppressed another snort of laughter. _Gotta take humor where you can find it, especially in a place like this._

Seemingly oblivious to Will’s plight, Alana gave Dr. Lecter a small smile. Abigail noticed a distinctly _flirtatious_ look in her eye. _Oh, no! Not him too!_ She suppressed another giggle.

“Abigail was just telling us about her day.” Alana spoke, in a cloyingly sweet and patronizing tone.

“And?” Dr. Lecter asked expectantly.

Abruptly, Abigail realized he was expecting _her_ to answer. “Uh, well, this FBI psychiatrist showed up…” she put on a weak smile.

Dr. Lecter inclined his head in the light catching his chiseled cheekbones, urging her to continue.

“He asked a lot of questions? He said it was some sort of evaluation. Not really one for small talk…” she let out a nervous laugh. “He was rather pushy?” _What am I supposed to say? That he kept sitting there with that patronizing smile, trying to act like a kindly priest, all while trying to give me just enough rope to hang myself? At least he didn’t mention my knife._ They hadn’t arrested her yet, but with more than the metaphorical sword of Damocles waiting in some FBI evidence bag, she couldn’t help but feel it was only a matter of time.

“Oh, you met McCusker!” Will interjected from across the room.

Alana glared sharply at Will, but unsurprisingly he didn’t seem to notice. Abigail nodded. “Yeah, that’s his name.”

Will let out sad, dark, chuckle, “We were supposed to finish mine on Friday, but he has some talk at Georgetown. Another temporary reprieve. Yay me.” He looked up, but upon meeting Abigail’s gaze, immediately turned to look out the window.

 _Wow, from his tone of voice, you’d think he’s on death row or something._ Abigail merely nodded. _He honestly seems more apprehensive about McCusker than even I am! I know what I’m hiding, but what the hell did he do?_

Dr. Lecter abruptly rose and moved to stand uncomfortably close to Graham. Abigail suppressed yet another giggle. _Wait…him too? Do I need to start drawing diagrams to map this out?_ _They need more than a maintenance closet!_ She was aware that at least some of her humor was giddiness brought on from fatigue, but she was far past the point of pretending to care.

Before anyone could continue, Alana interjected, clearly slightly annoyed at the disparagement of her colleague. “I’m sure we should let Abigail get some rest before doctors return.” She turned to Will and with a tight smile said, “Will, why don’t we get a bite to eat? I thought I saw a food court out front.”

Before Will could protest, Abigail chimed in, with a large smile and in her sweetest tone, “Could you get me something too?” _Anything to get you out of the room._ _“Anything_ is better than this hospital food.”

Will broke into a relieved grin. “Of course.” Grabbing his worn green jacket he hurried out of the room after Alana.

She couldn’t help but notice Dr. Lecter observed the interaction with an expression of mild curiosity. _Shit, he noticed. Maybe getting them to leave wasn't such a good idea…_

As the door closed, Dr. Lecter sat down in the lone chair beside her bed. “Abigail, I’m sure this is all very overwhelming for you.”

She looked at him, appraising him cautiously, but his dark eyes seemed genuinely sympathetic.

He continued. “As a former surgeon, I can attest to the misery of hospitals.”

“Yeah, its pretty bad.” She tilted her head. “Wait, _former_ surgeon? Why did you leave?”

“The environment. One starts too loose sight of humanity. It is all too easy to start reducing others to mere entries on charts.”

She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t initially peg him as a humanitarian. “So if you’re not a surgeon, what do you do now?”

“I’m a psychiatrist. It allows me to focus on the person, not merely charts and numbers.”

Stiffening, she tightened her lips. _Of course. Last thing I need. Someone else trying to get into my head. God, I hope he’s not here as the good cop to McCusker’s bad cop._

Seemingly noticing her concern, he leaned forward, “Don’t worry,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “I’m not with the FBI. They are far too structured for my tastes.” He gave a small reassuring smile.

 _Damn, he’s smooth,_ part of her thought as she hesitantly nodded. As much as she wanted to believe him, a large part of her held back. _There’s always another shoe._ Abigail thought. _If father taught me one thing, there is always another shoe to drop._

Leaning back, he changed the subject. “I don’t know if you were told, but a charity has offered to pay for your care. Don’t let the staff try and guilt you into thinking they are merely helping you out of the goodness of their hearts.” Again, he leaned forward conspiratorially, “They’re not.”

“A charity?” She looked at him skeptically. _God, why would anyone want to help me?_

“It helps teenagers and young adults were victims of domestic violence.”

She warily nodded. She wasn’t sure she really qualified—sure her father tried to kill her, but…

A smile quirked around the edge of his mouth. “Just remember, focus on your recovery, and despite what others tell you, you are more than a mere statistic. Now, what shall we talk about? I expect it will be some time before Alana and Will return.”

_Oh God, I did not need to hear that._

***

As the morning sun started to peek over the horizon, Freddie stumbled back to the motel. _Denny’s I will never shit-talk you again. Cameras, coffee, a police officer discount, and alcohol. Don’t forget the alcohol._

_Paranoid night-owl’s dream._

She fiddled with her keys, and opened the motel door. She flinched. _Well shit. I guess I’m not going crazy._ The room was a mess. Absolutely no effort was taken to hide the fact _someone_ had thoroughly and frantically searched through her belongings. _At least they went to the effort of leaving a couple half empty bottles of rum and, why yes, that is a dirty needle._ She sighed. _Well, it’s not like I was going to take this to cops anyway._

_Time to check the car._

When she arrived at her Forrester, she found it unlocked. _Big surprise,_ she thought darkly. Peeking into the backseat, she could see the notebook was indeed gone. Fishing the camera out from its hiding place, she started to check the footage. It was dark, but she could just make out a man in a brown leather jacket break into her car. She couldn’t tell if she was more horrified by his actions, or his awful 1980’s greasy mullet. His brown hair was slicked and pomped out in front, super short on the sides, and with the back descending past his shoulders.

She immediately recognized him from the ABP description. _Shit._ Freddie considered her options. On one level, she was relieved to know Crawford wasn’t the one sneaking through her window. But the pyscho who _ripped_ out Garret Jacob Hobbs’ throat?! Possible accomplice to the mass murderer Garet Jacob Hobbs?!

_Time I think to get out of here. But where can I go?_

She ran a hand through her red hair, trying to drag up a half-remembered fragment. _What did Zeller say? Right, New Orleans. They found Graham in New Orleans._ _I think its time to get out of town, take a vacation. New Orleans is as good a place as any…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a long chapter. And we have an Abigail! What has Hannibal done? Anyone have favorite characters they want to see more of? Characters they want to see less of?
> 
> Also, hi to all the new readers! Once again, thank you for reading! Comments are what keep us going!
> 
> See you in two weeks! Next week: New Orleans here we come!
> 
> Side Note: I've started watching Black Sails, we're like on season 3. OMG it's so good. Like it has some structural problems, but I love some of the characters. If I wasn't working on this large fic, I'd probably do something in that universe.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

_ Excerpt from First Draft of Brian Zeller’s Report on  _  
_Will Graham’s New Orleans Street Brawl_

_Executive Summary:_   
_Will Graham was attacked by an unknown assailant. He went apeshit crazy, biting off the man’s ear and throwing him into a flaming trashcan. [Which was a thing I just wrote] Graham then pursued his attacker (who was still on fire), until the man jumped into Lake Pontchartrain, never to be seen again. [Any chance of getting a dredging unit? We could use the old standby, ”Jimmy Hoffa’s down there”. It worked the last several times]_  
_Graham unsurprisingly claims to have no recollection of events [Gee, I wonder why!]_

 

**Baltimore — Johns Hopkins Hospital -- The Next Day**

Will Graham sat in the plain hospital hallway, staring blankly at the newspaper held tightly in his grip.

He’d stayed at the hospital far too late the night before. While Abigail had fallen asleep quickly after eating, Will had lingered for hours afterward with Dr. Lecter, in a long, shared vigil against the vagaries and indifference of the hospital staff. Again and again, he’d refused Dr. Lecter’s polite insistence that he return home and rest, until finally, a scant few hours before dawn, Dr. Lecter prevailed.

_I really shouldn’t stay so late tonight._ Will mechanically took a sip of coffee from a paper cup held in his lap. In their long talk, deep into the night, Dr. Lecter had observed that Will’s efforts to present a more polished appearance to Abigail would all be for naught if Will did not take proper care of himself, and fell behind on his sleep, showed up unshaven, or neglected to shower. Fortunately, the older man was kind enough to volunteer to take over the late night shift going forward, which would make it easier for Will to keep up with these new and unfamiliar demands on his time. _Besides, I really shouldn’t be sleeping in her room anymore. Dr. Lecter was right, girls get weird about that sort of thing. For a psychologist, he is surprisingly insightful._

Will glanced up at the clock. _11:00 AM._ He’d hoped to arrive before Abigail woke up, he slept through his alarm. Fortunately, Alana had arrived before him, and even better, had strong armed her way into the morning’s meeting with Abigail’s doctors, which was still going on.

Will yawned, and took another sip of coffee. It tasted awful. _Next time, I should hit a proper drive-through, instead of going into a gas station. Or just fill up a thermos from the FTRB break-room._ The past couple week of drinking Suzie’s coffee had really spoiled gas station coffee for him.

A voice spoke, above him. “Who are you?”

Will looked up to find two men, in dark suits. “Will Graham.” He frowned. “Who are you?”

The lead man spoke, “Agent Clayburn, FBI. This is my partner, Agent Alderson. We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Will examined the men more closely. The first Clayburn, was thin with short brown hair, and a stern expression. The other, Alderson was stocky, with darker hair and a bad comb over. Other than that, they were of a type, _middle aged men with tired eyes, cheap black suits and matching ties._ They were the most obvious, and least remarkable, government agents Will had ever seen.

Defensively, Will rose to his feet. “I’m a Special Investigator Will Graham. I’m here as part of an ongoing FBI investigation.” Heart pounding, he fumbled to produce his badge. _What are they doing here? No one said anything, and I don’t recognize them from the FTRB._

The door to Abigail’s room opened, and Alana peered into the hallway. “Is everything ok?” Seeing the agents, she nodded, ushering them inside. “Oh, you must be from the field office. Jack must have forgotten to mention it. I was wondering when they’d send someone.” Noticing Will’s surprise, she added, “Will, it’s ok. We’re handing off the search for the missing girls, so we can focus on Hobbs’ killer.”

Will nodded, trying to reassure himself this was just an innocuous interview, trying to convince himself that these men could be trusted to look out for Abigail.

“Graham? Will Graham?” Clayburn held a cheap Bic pen and a small wire-bound notebook.

Will nodded glumly. Clayburn shot his partner a significant look.

“We need to ask you a few questions. Miss Hobbs can wait. Could you please come with us?”

**FTRB Headquarters — Lunch**

Brian Zeller slid the mini pizza out of its wrapper, and into the toaster oven. _This better improve the flavor. The things the microwave does to this brand is just unspeakable._ Standing next to him in the Science Building’s Canteen, Lloyd Bowman fiddled with flavoring packets for his fancy ramen. _Not the Top Raman stuff. No, that’s not_ good _enough. He tracks the stuff down from Japan._ Brian paused. _Jesus, to think that until Graham got here, Lloyd was the weird one in the office. Now? It barely registers._

Already seated at the little kitchen table, Jimmy Price opened up his brown bagged lunch, and started eating his sandwich. _Wrapped in wax paper too. Is that?_ Brian leaned over to look, _Yup, he even brought an apple and a chocolate chip cookie._

“When’s this going to finish?” Brian groaned. _Inedible or not, the microwave was faster._

“If you had just brought a sandwich, you would be standing there waiting.” Jimmy tutted. “It only takes a few minutes each morning.”

“Time I’d rather be sleeping.” Lloyd dumped the packet in.

Jimmy shook his head. “It’s also healthier than whatever…” He grimaced in their direction, “that stuff is. The chemicals alone!” He looked horrified.

“Those chemicals taste good.” Brian answered, tapping his foot, eyeing the toaster oven.

“I wouldn’t even feed that to Houston. And you know he eats everything.”

_Yeah, we know about your pet rat._ Brian restrained rolling his eyes. _Your work station is full of pictures of all your pets._ “Well, I’m going to enjoy my _salty_ , _delicious_ , _goodness_.” Brian responded. _If it ever finishes…_

“Suit yourself. When you die of a sodium overdose, I’ll be here with Houston.” Jimmy took a large bite of his turkey sandwich. “So, how’s everyone’s day going?”

“Argh…” Bowman groaned. “Don’t get me started.”

“That bad?”

“I hate Lecter. Thanks to him, Jack has me running down background checks on every local consultant we run into. As if I don’t have enough _already_.”

_I wish I could have seen Jack and McCusker’s faces when they realized he wasn’t just some small town shrink._ Brian snickered. “Don’t you have help?”

“They gave me _Langton._ Langton of all people. Last time they gave me Brooks. She was useful!”

Brian stifled a laugh. Langton wasn’t bad if you knew how to use him. _He’s not that dumb, and as long as you make sure he can’t fuck off until he finishes the work, and you check on him regularly, he’s quite useful._

“At least he talks?” Lloyd responded. “It’s not like Cracknell. You’ll be sitting in the room for an hour, and only then realize he’s been sitting there staring at the back of your head the whole time. Knitting.”

The microwave dinged. Lloyd carefully removed his noodle bowl and joined Jimmy at the table. “Langton’s totally useless. These paintings? Jack wants me tracking the money. I’m not set up for this! Complicated money laundering? Sure. Off-shore bank accounts? Sure. Guys just walking into the bank with a duffle bag full of cash? And somehow getting the tellers to process it like normal, without batting an eye?” He scoffed. “What do I even do with that? Especially when the tellers don’t even remember doing it!”

Jimmy looked at Lloyd sympathetically. “Anything you do know?”

Lloyd snorted in frustration. “I know who’s laundering Johnson’s money. It’s this mob guy, Mario Palermo. Local FBI has tried to build a case against him for years.”

“Why don’t we just drag him in?” Brian asked, eyeing the still unfinished pizza. _Fuck it. I’m using the microwave next time._

“ _I_ know he did it. But we don’t have stand-up-in-court proof. Oh, I’m sure his house is full of stuff, but he’s too high-profile. We’d need a _real_ warrant to go in. So what are we going to do? Shoot him?” Lloyd groaned stirred the noodles. “And I’m not even done! This morning, I found a grenade under my desk! I didn’t put it there!”

Brian suppressed a snicker. _Looks like Lloyd is having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day._ Brian enjoyed watching the new boy stress out. Well, relatively new guy. Lloyd had been with them for a year and a half. _No one_ was going to prank Graham.

“I should set up a camera to catch them!”

_You have the perfect opportunity and you let it pass?_ Brian silently tutted. He wouldn’t let such an opportunity go to waste. _You could set up a booby trap! Something humiliating but not dangerous. Worse case it accidentally catches Jack or McCusker, but then just say it’s the same asshole who planted all the other stuff. What’re they going to do? Say they planted the rest but not the trap?_

“Or maybe I should tell Casey!” Lloyd continued on. “I don’t think she’s doing this, but she probably knows who.”

Brian just shook his head. _Come on, why are you talking like it could be anyone on base. We all know its King, Willingham, or Casey herself…_

“Well,” Brian said with a smirk, “I’ve had a productive day.” He ignored Lloyd’s rolling eyes. “Graham was right, most of those paintings did contain blood, bones, ground tissue, the works.”

“I’m not sure if we should be impressed at Graham, or horrified.” Jimmy frowned.

They shared a look of agreement.

“Where is Graham anyway?” Lloyd asked.

“They’re putting him up in a house. Getting him out of the Vip room.” Jimmy replied. “Really, it’s just an excuse to drop by often and see how he’s ‘settling in’.”

“As long as it isn’t me.” Brian cut in, before resuming the conversation, “But anyway, I’ve also managed to ID a bunch of those photos and paintings. Mostly missing persons, though some are confirmed dead. But, here’s the weird part. Some of them went missing 40+ years ago, but those are recent photos.”

“Vampire.” Lloyd replied flatly.

“Well, that specific one was standing in sunlight, so…”

“Ok, so it’s a thrall. Or a vampire with a death wish.” Lloyd sarcastically remarked.

Brain shuddered. The whole concept of thralls creeped him out. The idea that some vampire could feed you blood, and you’d end up bound to them? _I mean, you also get some vampire super powers, which is pretty sweet, but the brainwashing? I’ll pass._

“That’s cute,” Jimmy chimed in trying to find a positive. “I guess they’re commissioning paintings of people important to them…?” He drifted off weakly.

“If you can say a thrall is important.” Lloyd scoffed. “They’re basically just mindless slaves.” Lloyd rolled his eyes. “Vampires don’t _care_ like we do. They’re just inhuman monsters.” 

**New Orleans, LA -- Later That Afternoon — Day One**

_God,_ Freddie thought, idly gazing out the dirty cab windows. _New Orleans sure went to shit after Katrina._ Sighing, Freddie turned back to the sightseeing map she’d grabbed at the airport. _Clearly,_ she thought, flipping past page after page of dive bar recommendations, _I am_ not _the target audience. Was it really…holy shit, was it that long ago I came down here for Mardi Gras? Now I just feel old._

Desperately in need of distraction, Freddie flipped open her phone. _Let’s see, what’s new in New Orleans…hmmm big corruption scandal, cracked open by the FBI. Interesting…_

Shortly after, Freddie stood in the middle of her luxurious hotel room. _Great idea cashing in all those miles,_ she thought, eying the expansive fluffy bed. Pulling out her notes, she collapsed in the swiveling desk chair and started to peruse. There wasn’t much on Graham, but her search-fu had turned up a few tantalizing fragments. He’d definitely been with the NOPD a couple years, and seemed to have a piece of a few fairly big cases. _In fact, read between the lines a bit, toss in a few of Zeller’s quips…I bet he played a pretty big role, but got fucked on the politics._

Her big breakthrough was identifying his partner, or rather former partner, Leroy Bolet. Bolet did have a more prominent web presence. Commendations, media interviews, a real rising star. But then something happened. Oh, he wasn’t mentioned in any of the corruption stories, but from his Facebook page, he’d taken an ‘early retirement’ nonetheless. _Time to get my game face on._

She pulled out a cheap prepaid phone, consulted her notes, and dialed.

“Hello? Who is this?” A man’s voice grouched from the other side.

“Hi! Leroy Bolet?” Freddie asked in her sweetest dumb blonde voice. “This is Cathy Jensen, I’m writing a book on the New Orleans Police Department post Katrina, and I was hoping to interview you?”

“I’m not with the Department.” The man growled.

“Oh? Sorry, let me check my notes.” She opened and closed her notebook. “I am speaking to Leroy Bolet, rising star in the New Orleans PD 2nd District?”

“Formerly.” Bolet grumbled.

“Formerly? What happened?”

“Yeah, well, it don’t matter.”

She could tell he was about to hang up the phone. “Wait—could we meet tomorrow. There’s been a lot of negative press, and I understand how stressful and difficult this is, and it would be really nice to highlight some of the good things.” _Puff piece, puff piece, puff piece,_ she thought to herself. She smiled as she zoomed into the closing line. “Bar of your choice, drinks on me.”

That did it. “Well, I can’t really say no to a free drink.”

She smiled. _Hook, line, and sinker._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter everyone. So the next chapter is going to be posted next Friday. A lot of Will next update, and a Will and Hannibal scene. We're currently a few chapters ahead, writing wise. I've started plotting out book 2, I'm thinking of making it so people can just jump in a book 2, and saying that book 1 is a prequel, which it basically is. Book 2 is way more AU--Book 1 we had the limitations of wanting Abigail, which since she's so tied to her story, meant we had to keep more of the show than I would have preferred. Thoughts?
> 
> Also, I love the Science Team. They're ridiculous.
> 
> As always, comments adored. Thank you so much for reading! It means a lot that you guys like it!


	21. Chapter Twenty

_[Note posted on Microwave, Science Building Kitchen]_   
_To: Mr. Microwave Pizza_   
_You know where the cleaning supplies are. Use them. You won’t enjoy my next reminder.  
Love, Suzie_

**Near FTRB Compound — The Next Day**

Will Graham carefully surveyed the FTRB’s ‘Vip’ room, one last time. He remembered when he’d entered the room for the first time, arm in a sling, and high on pain meds. Even then, there had been something profoundly alien lurking within the room’s four pastel walls, beyond the oddly cheery décor. Something isolating, and claustrophobic, something cold. Something too much of the institution.

Something too much of Jack.

It had receded, for a time, as he remade the room in his own image, but the room had never truly been home. Just a place where he might work, where he might briefly rest his head.

Now, the notes and files that once plastered the walls were carefully packed away in boxes, neatly labeled for later re-assembly. As for his clothes, his few meager possessions, those were more haphazardly stuffed into the duffel slung over his shoulder. The rest of his belongings, retrieved from his old New Orleans home, were somewhere on base to be delivered to his new home in the coming days.

Looking out over the room’s bare walls and empty drawers, Will found that he was looking forward to having greater distance between himself and the all-consuming work, looking forward to once more living with his dogs. Looking forward to having more privacy than was afforded by this small room in the middle of the Science Building.

No, he wouldn’t miss it.

***

Carrying the last of his boxes, Will emerged from the Administration Building to see Beverly waiting by the largest golf cart he’d ever seen. It was painted a dark matte red, with oversized tires, and looked more suited to traversing muddy scrub than the compound’s neatly manicured lawns.

“Get in, it’s already loaded.” Beverly said, gesturing to his two boxes in the back of the cart.

“Thanks.” Will replied, stowing his belongings.

“Buckle up!” Beverly exclaimed with a grin. Will barely had time to scramble onboard before she threw the cart into gear and hammered the accelerator. As Will fumbled with his seatbelt, the cart sped forward, turning in a wide arc around the parked cars, in gleeful defiance of the white lines painted on the pavement. _She can’t possibly…_ Will thought with sudden alarm, as the cart came out of its turn pointed directly towards the edge of the parking lot. Will braced himself against the side of the cart.

With a jolt, the cart left the smooth surface of the asphalt, now bouncing merrily along Suzie’s carefully tended lawn. Will snuck a glance at the speedometer. _30 mph._ Somehow, it seemed faster.

“How’s Abigail?” Beverly shouted.

“Ok?” Will strained to make himself heard over the wind roaring past. “They’ve taken out the tubes, disconnected most of the machines. She’s even gotten out of bed, taken a few steps, but she still tires easily.”

With a jolt, Beverly bounced the cart onto the driveway just short of the front gate, braking heavily as the gate opened in front of them.

Will was very glad he had a seatbelt.

“Don’t worry Will,” Beverly said, speeding up as she turned out of the compound. “Abigail’s a big girl. Give her a few days, and she’ll be up on her feet and giving the nurses hell.”

Will nodded. “I just don’t trust the doctors. I don’t like leaving her there alone.”

Beverly laughed. “Yeah, doctors suck. When I was a kid, you had to bribe me with ice cream to get me even _near_ a doctor’s office.”

Will felt a pang of guilt. He should be at tending to Abigail. _At least Alana’s there. It was nice of her to go on her afternoon off._

Beverly continued, “So, got any other plans?”

Will nodded. “I’m meeting Dr. Lecter at the hospital tonight. Though, he’ll probably try and send me home, as usual.” Will let out a sarcastic laugh. For some reason, he found himself looking forward to his conversations with Dr. Lecter—he couldn’t remember the last time he actually looked forward to speaking to a person. Oh, there were people he tolerated, instead of actively disliking, but to actually enjoy someone’s company was a rare and decadent pleasure.

Beverly spoke up, breaking Will’s reverie. “Your dogs are doing well, by the way. But I think they miss you.”

“Yeah,” Will replied, feeling another pang of guilt. “I miss them too.” He’d just been so busy, so submerged in his work, in watching after Abigail, that he’d started to fall into a new rhythm of life without them.

“And here we are!” Beverly cheerfully called out, as they pulled into a gravel driveway.

Will glanced up. Before him was a white, two story farmhouse, fronted by a small covered porch, topped with a grey slate roof, complete with a dark brick chimney. The house itself sat atop a small hill, surrounded by a large, open lawn, and a few scattered trees. Although a few other houses were visible, the nearest house seemed to be at least a quarter mile away.

Pulling up alongside, Beverly stopped the cart, and after fishing briefly in the pocket of her maroon jacket, tossed Will a set of keys. “Here you go, kiddo. So, what do you think?”

“Um,” Will replied, barely catching the keys. “It’s certainly bigger than my place in New Orleans.” _In fact, it’s bigger than anywhere I’ve ever lived._

Beverly laughed. “Ok. Let’s have a look.”

Cautiously, Will climbed the porch steps. Before entering, he paused a moment to appreciate the porch’s good repair, and the good state of the house’s exterior paint. Part of him couldn’t believe they were letting him use something so nice, and it made him feel a little uncomfortable. As soon as he could scrape together a security deposit, he’d have to get a place truly his own. _Which reminds me,_ he thought sardonically, _I need to check with Suzie on my pay. I don’t remember ever actually filling out a W-2, let alone direct deposit forms._

Will shook his head. _Enough woolgathering._ Almost reverently, he opened the door and walked inside. Much of the first floor was taken up by a large living room. Windows dotted the exterior walls, giving a commanding view of the road in front and the rolling country to the sides. The room’s interior wall was dominated by a large, stone hearth, with two doors to its right and a third to its left. Will nodded, slowly, lost in thought, seeing in his mind’s eye a bed opposite the hearth, dogs spread out in front.

Will turned to the doors, quickly finding that the first led to a bathroom, and the second to a set of stairs. Opening the third, final door, Will found a smaller room, perhaps intended as a dining room or study, with another door on the side to his right, heading toward the rear of the house. Windows dotted the two exterior walls, providing more gorgeous views.

“We can help you find a table to put in here, if you’d like,” Beverly offered helpfully. “I’m sure Suzie knows where to find one.”

Mumbling something noncommittal, Will opened the door, and found himself in a small but serviceable kitchen with a large window over the sink and a door leading outside. The dishwasher and in-sink disposal were a surprise, unexpected luxuries Will had not previously enjoyed. He was surprised, however, to find a pair of store-brand frozen pizzas in the freezer.

Sensing movement, Will turned back to the window above the sink. Peering out, he could just make out a group of children playing in the distance, around what looked like a small pond. _Some kind of school group, perhaps? No, I don’t see any adults. Odd, that. Which reminds me—_ “Oh, Beverly, I meant to ask. Those agents from the field office. The ones who interviewed Abigail and me.” _The creepy ones, with cheap suits and suspicious eyes._ “Do you know if they’ve found anything? About the other girls?”

“No, sorry.” She shrugged. “We’re focusing on tracking the other man, the one you chased off.” She chuckled. “But don’t worry, if they get a solid lead, I’m sure they’ll let us know.”

Will frowned. He’d expected closer cooperation, _particularly_ in light of the intensity of the other agents’ questioning.

Shaking his head, Will returned to the living room, and opened the door leading to the staircase. Peering closely at the floor, he could just make out the outline of— _a trapdoor?_ Kneeling down, he opened the unexpectedly heavy hatch and found a steep staircase leading down into a dark, concrete hole.

He looked up at Beverly. “What’s this?”

Beverly rolled her eyes. “Congratulations, you found the bunker. A few of the buildings around here have them. For some people, the Cold War never ended.”

Will shrugged, and finding a light switch, tentatively made his way down the steep steps. As he did, he noticed the hatch had a thick layer of steel under its wood veneer. And that it locked from the inside.

Passing through a heavy steel door, which also locked from the inside, he walked into a small boxy concrete room, afflicted with an ugly, green shag rug, straight out of the ‘70s. The only other things in the room were a squishy looking, avocado-green velour chair sitting sadly in one corner, a few bare metal shelves, and an old phone on one wall with what looked like some kind of wind-up crank. _At least it all looks clean?_

“It comes furnished, so it has that going for it?” Beverly joked. “But anyway, Willingham and Langton are coming by with your stuff in a bit. If you don’t like any of it, they’ll help you carry it out. There’s a case of beer in the cart for you to give them as payment.”

_Some things never change,_ Will thought with a small smile. As they climbed back upstairs, Will noticed the bunker was well below the level of the house. _Whoever made this took the whole bomb thing seriously. But you’d think that someone that worried would have moved farther out into the country. Or at least farther away from targets like Baltimore and Washington._

“Thank you again for helping find this place,” Will turned to Beverly. “I’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t had time to think about finding somewhere more permanent.” He paused awkwardly. There was no getting around this. “This is really nice. I almost hesitate to ask, what’s the rent going to be?

Beverly gave him an odd look. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a place near base we have, one of a couple. Not like anyone is using it right now.”

Will nearly froze. _Really? They just happen to have a house a few minutes from base. That just happens to be empty. I know I’ve heard Rankin mention sharing a duplex with his idiot roommate. If they had a spare house, why isn’t he in it? He’s what, a team leader? Yet here it is, neat and clean and ready._ He glanced back, out a living room window. _The lawn’s even mowed._

It all clicked into place. The strained smiles, the awkward glances, the hushed conversations aborted when he entered the room. _No, the reason for this place, its sudden availability, its convenience is because they don’t dare let me farther afield. There’s something I’ve seen, something they think I’ve seen, something that worries them. Here I was thinking they were allowing me some privacy, some distance._

_How naive._

Thoughts bombarded him. _Of course Alana didn’t just happen to have time this afternoon. Of course she isn’t just concerned about Abigail’s welfare. No doubt she’s like those agents—suspicious, accusatory, just waiting for Abigail to say something, anything they can twist, distort to justify their suspicions._

Will found his steps had carried him to the second floor in a haze of stairs and empty rooms. He wasn’t paying attention. He knew that he’d just stick all his belongings on the first floor. It wasn’t like he had that much stuff. He could convert the second floor into a work area. _Harder for someone to ‘accidentally’ snoop around while pretending to check in on me. Assuming they don’t break in._

“So, what exactly do you do here?” Will asked nonchalantly, as they walked back downstairs.

She laughed, pulling out a business card from her wallet, and passed it to him. “What does my card say? _Prints and Fiber._ So I guess I do prints and fiber, and other odd jobs.”

Will handed the card back, unable to keep the skeptical look at bay. “Those ‘odd jobs’ seem to take up far more time than ‘prints and fiber’.”

“No comment. But don’t get too smart for your own good.” Beverly chuckled nervously, gently elbowing him in the shoulder. “In all seriousness, what we do here may be the most important work in the Bureau. It’s certainly more important than that ‘War on Drugs’ bullshit. If we didn’t do it, no one would, and if we didn’t catch them…well no one would.”

Confused, Will asked, “What are you talking about?”

She snorted and flipped her long black hair back. “Sorry kiddo, but you’re not all the way in. Nothing personal, but it’s one of those things we’ve learned the hard way. Normally you wouldn’t even be on base until your background check came through, but Jack made an exception.”

_And there we have it._ Will thought as he nodded politely. _They let me in too early, and are having second thoughts. Secrets upon secrets upon secrets._

“So, what do you think of the house?” Beverly said, in a transparent effort to change the subject.

“It’s really large.” Will replied, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. “I think the dogs will like it.”

Beverly gave him an odd look. “You’ve got a good heart. Be sure not to let Jack, Tom, and all the rest take that away from you.”

**New Orleans, LA — Late Afternoon — Day Two**

Freddie sauntered into Mulligan’s Bar. _Well, at least this won’t be an expensive interview,_ she thought, The bar’s ratty, mismatched furnishings looked like they’d been salvaged from a dumpster, and generations of scrawled graffiti covered the walls and even part of the ceiling. There was of course, no air-conditioning, and the few battered overhead fans utterly failed to do anything about the heat and humidity.

A few mosquitos buzzed by. _I hate mosquitoes. If there was any argument against intelligent-design this is it._ Freddie grumbled, as she swatted at them. _Remind me to get some bug spray later,_ she thought to herself.

Ignoring the bartender’s wolf whistle, Freddie scanned the room, finally seeing Bolet sitting alone in the back corner, half-hidden in a booth. He was paunchy and middle-aged, no doubt from long shifts sitting in his car and eating doughnuts. Waving, she smiled as she caught his gaze, before making her way back to the booth.

“Leroy Bolet? Cathy Jensen, good to finally meet you!”

Bolet nodded, scratching his receding hairline. “Cathy, nice to meet you.”

“Here, why don’t I go pick us up a round?” Freddie looked back at the menu hanging crookedly behind the bar. “And how about some mozzarella sticks to share?”

He nodded again. Keeping a close eye on him, Freddie walked over to the counter. _Don’t want to spook him._

Making her way across the uneven floor to the bar, Freddie flagged down the bartender, “Two pale ales, and a basket of mozzarella sticks.”

The bartender grunted in response and picked up two glasses, casually wiping them with a dirty rag before taking them to the tap. Freddie suppressed a shudder. _Maybe I should have ordered something higher proof…_

Arriving back at the booth, Freddie set an ale in front Bolet, before sliding into the booth across from him. “So, the New Orleans PD.” She brightly said, “Quite the bit of publicity the last few years.”

“What’s this book you’re writin’?” Bolet muttered, sipping his ale. “Some sorta hit piece? Exposing the _racism_ and _violence_ in New Orleans?” The words rolled sarcastically off his tongue, showing his disdain for the matter.

“God no!” Freddie exclaimed, suppressing her annoyance.

“So why do you want to talk to me? Ex-cops are a dime a dozen. I’m sure you could find one with a far more chipper attitude.” His eyes flicked her up and down, appraising her.

Freddie bashfully cast her eyes downward in a flirtatious manner. _Just stroke that ego,_ she thought. “I didn’t know. I saw your record a while back. It stood out. _Impressive._ You received multiple awards last year, commendations four years running. _Very solid_ career.”

“Fat lot of good it did.” Bolet took a long sip from his drink.

Freddie leaned forward, prompting for more, trying to look as innocently interested as possible.

His eyes flickered with rage at the memory. “They didn’t just fire me, they fucking cut my pension!” He almost growled.

“They did what!” Freddie’s hand went to her chest in pretend shock, the very picture of scandalization. In truth she wasn’t surprised. “But you weren’t indicted!” She exclaimed.

“Like they care!” He spat out.

Freddie paused as the bartender indifferently slide a basket of mozzarella sticks onto the table. _The way this bar is, I’m glad they’re fried at high temperature,_ Freddie thought.

She waited for the bartender to leave before continuing, “I don’t believe for a moment you were involved in any of that corruption stuff. Not with your track record.”

He leaned back in the booth and exhaled. “Thanks. At least _someone_ believes me.”

_Well,_ Freddie thought, _he seems to be realizing at least. Time to_ _steer the conversation towards the target._ “They must be using you as a fall guy…or something.”

Bolet paused, picking up a burnt mozzarella stick, and taking a bite. Cheese started dripping down his chin. “You know, now that I think about it, I think the reason is that fucker Graham.”

“Graham?” Freddie leaned closer.

“Yeah, my shithead partner. That rat was crazier than a disgruntled postal worker on acid. We had this bet going around the station. How long before he snapped and went Rambo on all of us.”

“What did he do?” She jotted down the quote. She could see the headline, ‘ _Mad Dog of New Orleans: Former colleagues feared for their lives’._

“Graham, that little piece of shit, he’s always been on a tight wire, only so long before it snapped.” Bolet shook his head in disgust. “Well, it finally snapped. He went totally off the deep end on his last case. Some sicko murdered a couple and covered the walls in blood. Gives new meaning to painting the town red.” Bolet coughed out a harsh laugh.

Freddie furled her brow, hanging on to every word. “What did he do?” She pressed.

“He started claiming the perp had superhuman strength, super speed and the ability to disappear or _fly away_.”

Freddie choked on her beer. “Jeezus, you were right, he sounds totally nuts.” She didn’t have to fake that. ‘ _Wrong Ward Will?’_

“Yeah, I threw his report right in the trash, and the Commander finally put him on suspension. Next thing we know, the FBI is swooping down, arresting and suspending half the force, and Will Graham is under FBI protection.”

“FBI protection? How do you know?” She exclaimed. She was under the impression they generally tried to keep such things quiet. After all, otherwise it sorta defeated the purpose of _protection._ She caught herself, and lowered her voice again. “I mean wouldn’t they try and keep quiet about that?”

“Yeah, well trust me. We have ways of finding out.” He took a long swig before grimacing.

There was a brief pause, as Freddie figured out how to restart the conversation. “So, you think you were fired because Graham turned informant?”

“Yeah. I was his partner. I was supposed to know him, keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t go—you know. That’s been my job for the last few years, fucking babysitting duty.” He took another sip. Freddie noticed he had about half a glass left. _Going to have to go buy him another one soon._ “The other cops don’t talk to me anymore.” He continued. “They all seem to think I was involved.”

“God that’s just awful. How long was he your partner?”

“Four or so years. His former partner quit. I shoulda known then something was wrong.” Bolet paused. Freddie could sense his hand tighten.

She tilted her head nonchalantly. “Oh?” She innocently asked.

“Nothing.” Bolet’s eyes flickered. “Yeah, he was just bad news.”

“Did he have any friends or family in town?” _Anyone else I can talk to…_

Freddie noticed a muscle in his shoulder twitch. _Fuck._

“No.” He sharply said. “Not that I know of. He never talked about his personal life.” Bolet’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her accusingly. “Why do you care?”

Freddie did her best to act confused. “Sorry? Is everything ok?”

“Never mind.” He snapped and abruptly rose. “I gotta use the john. Back in a few.”

_Shit. Talking about Graham really set him off. What is he hiding?_ A few minutes passed. She tapped the table. Finally growing suspicious, she got up and followed a ‘Latrine’ sign pointing down the hall behind the bar.

“Bolet? Are you all right?” The door to the men’s room was open a crack. She kicked it lightly. Empty. _Dammit. He ran._

**Baltimore — Johns Hopkins Hospital -- That Night**

As Hannibal stepped out of Abigail’s room, he was surprised to see Will Graham slumped in a hard plastic chair across the hall. The younger man’s eyes were closed, glasses tucked in a front shirt pocket. Hannibal stood there for a moment, distracted, before shaking himself back to the present, and frowning. After all, only an hour before, after a few pointed hints from Hannibal, Will had left, wishing all a good night. Yet, it seemed that the younger man had simply retreated into the hall. From the state of his tangled, disheveled brown hair, he’d spent the intervening time alternately dozing and nervously running his hands through his previously hair. _Such a shame, too, after he went to such trouble to comb._ Hannibal thought, endearingly. As for the man’s presence, _it is endearing, if misguided._

Crossing the hall, Hannibal gently lowered himself into the chair next to Will’s.

“How is she?” Will asked, not bothering to open his eyes.

“She is well.” Hannibal replied, taking a moment to study the peaceful man’s face intently. It was so different, seeing him here, at rest, with little trace of the frantic energy that so often enveloped him. He watched the younger man’s steady breathing, and found it touching to see how much Will trusted him—the man’s bared neck a mere foot away.

“Good.” Will opened his eyes, and met Hannibal’s intent gaze. Seeing Will’s eyes, unobstructed by the usual thick lenses, was a rare and to Hannibal’s recollection, unprecedented privilege. The boy’s eyes were a soft stormy blue. “Thank you, for coming.” Will continued, turning away. “She finds your company far more pleasant than my own.”

“Give it time,” Hannibal replied, tilting his head slightly. “She will come around.”

He watched as Will nervously glanced up and down the hall, the boy’s eyes lingering a moment on the empty nurses’ station. In a low tone, Will replied, “I worry about her. Jack, Alana, McCusker, all of them. They say the investigation has moved on, that they’re leaving Abigail and the other girls to Clayburn and Alderson. But I see the looks the others share when they think I’m not looking. See the way Alana looks at her.”

“Oh?” Hannibal replied, appreciating how completely alone they were in the deserted hallway.

Will’s blue eyes flicked up to meet Hannibal’s, looking very weary. “You know how hard Jack works Alana. With everything they pulled from New Orleans, Dickinson, and now Lancaster, the team is busier than it’s been in years. Yet, Jack just lets her go here? Let’s me go? No, Alana’s only here because Jack wills it.”

Hannibal suppressed a smile. It would not do for Will to see just how much he enjoyed watching the boy’s mind take fire, burning with equal efficiency through Hobbs’ subterfuges or Jack’s web of lies. Instead, Hannibal allowed an expression of alarm to cross his face. “Surely, they cannot still suspect her? Not after what her father did?”

Will leaned forward, and for a moment, Hannibal was certain he’d seen Will’s eyes flicker. “But they do still suspect her. Jack, Alana, McCusker. They’re all just waiting for her to say something, anything they can misconstrue to justify their paranoia.”

Hannibal frowned at the mention of the other psychologist. Jack, for all his vaunted power and insight, was known to him, and all too easy to manipulate. But this Donald McCusker? The psychiatrist was too perceptive for Hannibal’s tastes and, worse still, too driven by his emotions, too prone to act on impulse. He could _not_ be safely maneuvered, and Hannibal found Abigail and Will far too entertaining to allow them to fall prey to the man’s delusions. Strangely, Will did not seem aware of the risk. _Best to change that._

An expression of thoughtful contemplation morphed over Hannibal’s face, and he began to slowly nod. “Perhaps. It would explain why McCusker delayed his interview with you to focus on the young Miss Hobbs.”

Will furrowed his brow.

Hannibal turned to face Will directly, allowing a veneer of gentle care to cover his features. “You are right to take heed. But not just for Miss Hobbs; you ought take heed for yourself as well.”

A flash of confusion crossed Will’s delicate features. “Why? As long as I’m here, I’m not seeing _whatever_ it is that they’re trying to keep me away from.”

Hannibal gave a sad smile. “I fear that it may not be so simple. Jack and those he has surrounded himself with are powerful men, men who are not accustomed to disappointment. They are determined to see Miss Hobbs as an enemy. Dr. McCusker will turn back to you eventually and, when he does, the sincerity and depth of your concern for Abigail will become clear. Do you not think that they will conclude it necessary to take action, to remove your ability to stand between them and Abigail?”

Will’s face fell, and his shoulders slumped as he turned away. “You think they will send me back to New Orleans.”

“Yes, and this ‘evaluation’ will be the pretext.”

Silently, Will turned to gaze at the door in front of them.

Not for the first time, Hannibal marveled at the unexpected turn Will had shown in the wake of his confrontation with Johnson. Nothing he had heard from Alana, nothing he had seen earlier that evening at the hotel, or even at the slaughterhouse, had given him an inkling of the guilt and self-loathing lurking in the depths of that beautiful mind. And while the confrontation had serendipitously created an opening for Hannibal to fully enter Will’s life, it had also highlighted the danger of the man’s unhealthy fixation on quaint notions of right and wrong, justice and guilt, responsibility and shame. _I truly must do something. No matter how entertaining it is to watch him struggle, I must free him from these shackles before he hurts himself._

Finally, Will broke the silence. “They’ll say all the things that Lounds woman wrote. They already have all the reasons to justify shuffling me aside, sending me away. Put me where I can no longer protect Abigail.” Will looked up at Hannibal. “But what can we do faced with such implacable hostility?”

Hannibal noticed the open warmth and vulnerability in the younger man’s eyes. “Endure. And never make the mistake of believing you are alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! Will and Hannibal are so sweet! Oh, Freddie what have you done...(This is becoming a recurring statement).
> 
> The hideous rug and green velour chair in the bunker were actually in my dorm room, a friend left them to me when she graduated. 
> 
> So what do you think of the FTRB? And thank you so much for reading! Shoutout to cee and Elywyngirlie for your support! 
> 
> See you all in two weeks!


	22. Chapter Twenty One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal starts getting involved in Brethren politics. We meet a wild Mason.  
> Will: "Apparently the FBI pay really well?"  
> Abigail: "I didn't think this could get much worse"  
> Freddie: "It's not paranoia if they're out to get ya."  
> And more...

_“Daddy dearest has announced he’s assembling an ‘auxiliary’ council. What a joke. You know what he says, if someone’s a nuisance, best to distract them by putting them on a meaningless committee…” — Letter from Jeremy Beamish to Hannibal Lecter, dated February 15th_

_One week later: “My dearest friend Hannibal, enclosed, find your invitation for a little soiree to celebrate my appointment as chair of the Auxiliary Council. I can’t begin to express how happy I am that He is finally giving me a portion of the recognition I deserve…” — Letter from Jeremy Beamish to Hannibal, dated March 1st_

**Baltimore, MA — Later That Night**

_At least I’m alone._ Hannibal Lecter thought as he sat in the bare conference room. He enjoyed the brief respite while his escort for the evening, his _ever so dear friend and business partner_ Jeremy Beamish, gathered their esteemed guests, an august group of senior Brethren _personally_ selected by the Governor-General for the _honor_ of this private briefing on the ‘Crawford Dilemma’. Of course, the honor would be much greater if the meeting was directed by the Governor-General himself. Or indeed attending at all.

The fact that the night’s invitees were widely seen as troublemakers and dissidents was, no doubt, a _complete_ coincidence.

Hannibal suppressed the urge to wrinkle his nose in disgust. This little bit of political theater, however amusing in concept, was keeping him from far more important matters, such as watering his indoor herb garden. The only positive thing about this was its convenient timing. At 3AM, Will had long since gone home, and Abigail was fast asleep. Hannibal was pleased that it seemed with each passing night, easier to convince Will to return home and rest. Of course, Will thought Hannibal was still at the hospital, tending to Abigail. But there was no point in needlessly worrying the boy.

Hannibal allowed himself a small self-satisfied smile. Absent his intervention, there was no telling when, or if, Abigail would have risen from her coma. As it was, her rapid return to consciousness, coming as it had when Will’s misguided guilt remained fresh in his mind, caught the younger man entirely off-guard. _In spite of my profession, Will now sees me as his only ally in his quest to protect the young Hobbs girl. So long as Miss Hobbs is kept from any misfortunes, his gratitude should suffice in the future, hardening his mind against any suggestion of suspicion targeted at me._

Of course, Hannibal was acutely aware that if something untoward happened to Abigail Hobbs, the effects on the boy’s psyche, and more importantly on his trust for Hannibal, would be quite severe.

Hannibal looked down at the folder on his desk. _This meeting can comfortably be expected to feature all the joys of a hospital staff meeting, without the benefit of being able to crack open someone’s ribs in the immediate aftermath._

He looked around. _Not to mention the décor of a hospital as well!_ He gazed glumly at the concrete walls and metal tables, neatly arranged in a large circle and bolted to the floor. The only tasteful thing in the room, and Hannibal could not believe he was thinking this, were the very nice black metal chairs. Oh, they did still somehow manage to fold, but one wouldn’t think it by looking at them. He could only assume they were custom made, as he could not conceive of a consumer market for such an item. Whatever his criticisms of the Governor-General, and there were many, when security concerns forbade the use of wood, he still found reasonably acceptable chairs.

He knew that in other cities, such meetings were held in high-end restaurants, penthouse apartments, and fine galleries. And Baltimore did have many such venues. Unfortunately, in light of the ‘ongoing threats to the city’—from foreign rivals, from internal dissidents, from Crawford himself, the precise reasons changed with the political winds—the Governor-General had decreed that such meetings were to be held in secure locations. _And while the Governor-General’s concerns are understandable, when one starts with a bunker, regrettably there is only so much one can do._

 _Finally, footsteps._ Hannibal sighed, reverting his face to expressionless mask. A few moments later, the door opened, revealing Manfred Fleischer, the Governor-General’s Captain of the Guard, and two of the evening’s more respectable guests, Theodoros Kakos and Seth Searle. _Of course,_ Hannibal thought, _in this case respectability is a relative measure._

Theodoros Kakos was a senior member of Baltimore’s most prestigious necromantic cult. A dower, pudgy man, turned well into his middle age, he exuded an aura of carefully constructed mystery, no doubt from some misplaced sense of professional obligation. He had, however, somehow missed the importance of projecting confidence as well, or, for that matter _competence._ Clad in all black and wearing a ridiculous skull pendent, he looked like some teenage ‘rebel’ from the suburbs. _In reality,_ Hannibal thought sarcastically, _he probably spends more time mediating petty family squabbles and managing investments than he does consorting with spirits from beyond the veil._

Seth Searle was the leader of the local branch of the Heirs of Prometheus, a renowned and ancient society that had fallen into disrepute over the last millennium. Judging from the man’s clothing alone, Hannibal could not fault polite society’s continued ostracization of Seth and his followers. The man was attired in a tight emerald green silk shirt with the top several buttons undone, revealing a silver chain necklace with a pendent of a large jade snake. Seth had accentuated the outfit with tacky silver snake cufflinks and matching earrings. His pants, tight black leather, left little to the imagination.

Although Seth did not realize, he and Hannibal were ostensibly brothers. However, despite their shared, distant progenitor, it had not escaped Hannibal’s notice that Seth’s grasp of the Heirs inner mysteries was tenuous at best. And Hannibal had no intention of remedying Seth’s ignorance of the matter, or for that matter, _anyone_ _else_. He had no desire to see himself brought down in one of the ridiculous scandals that so regularly embroiled the man and his associates.

Pleasantries were exchanged. Hannibal watched with amusement as the two men circled the table to inspect the little plastic name tags at each seat. Apparently satisfied with the seating arrangement, the two men sat down at their respective seats, next to each other.

 _More footsteps._ The Captain of the Guard returned, this time with a filthy, bearded man in his late-20’s. _Aleksandr Zhdanov_. The man had the unenviable task of carrying the Governor-General’s words to the city’s various disorganized dissident factions, composed of a motley collection of academics, radicals, and other riffraff. Factions that, for one reason or another, were not on speaking terms with anyone on the Council.

Zhdanov’s position was a new one. Previously, the Governor-General tried to moderate the dissidents by appointing one of their leaders to the Council. This proved an imperfect solution, as the dissidents could never agree on a single representative. Councilor Ricky Rike, Clive Johnson’s patron, was merely the latest in that long line to try and unite the various factions. Undoubtedly, he would not be the last.

And so the Governor-General’s latest experiment, a speaker for the dissident dissidents. Hannibal was morbidly curious what the Governor-General’s next attempt would be when this approach inevitably failed. _Frankly, if I were in charge, I would have resorted to the guillotine long ago…_

Zhdanov wore a dirty white t-shirt and ill-fitting wrinkled khaki brown cargo pants. His second-hand military green Castro jacket looked like it had not been washed since Zhdanov first acquired it, sometime in the 1970’s.

Hannibal noticed with amusement that the Captain Fleischer elected to remain in the room. The man loomed by the doorway, keeping a wary eye on Zhdanov. He had large brown mutton chop sideburns segueing into a mustache, and wore bulky black body armor, the kind used by SWAT teams. While much Baltimore trembled at Fleischer’s fearsome reputation, Hannibal did not share this view. The man was little more than an uncreative thug, blindly obeying orders. _Who would willingly give their life solely for the total servitude of another?_

Finally Jeremy Beamish entered the room, chatting with a man wearing an absolutely ridiculous white coat with a large fur collar. Hannibal could not help but liken the man’s spiky hair to that of a pineapple. _Ah yes, the renowned_ _Mason Verger._ A madman who’s instability and erratic behavior had been a talking point in Baltimore society for decades. The man had inherited a vice network from his father, but unlike many progeny who grow soft, Mason ran it with a far more brutal efficiency. _Somehow,_ Hannibal thought, _the man manages to stay just useful enough to make the pain of removing him not worth the effort._ He supposed it was far better to deal with only one Mason than the 2-3 other aspirants and ensuing power struggle that would inevitably occur were Mason removed. _Yet at least he has some modicum of respectability. Unlike my dear ‘brother’._

He watched as they took their seats, with Fleischer noticeably sitting in-between Verger and Zhdanov. Mason removed his coat, and Hannibal could see a little Italian flag pinned to the lapel of his dark suit collar. Jeremy opened his black leather briefcase, loudly shuffled his papers, and pulled out a black planner.

Hannibal couldn’t begrudge the Governor-General for not appearing in person at tonight’s meeting. After all, if Hannibal had any say in the matter, he would much rather be home washing dishes. The elegant lords and ladies of the Council this was not.

Jeremy tapped on the table bringing the meeting to order. In his black suit, matching tie, and white shirt, it gave him the appearance of a rather impatient waiter. He cleared this throat. “We’re here to hear from Dr. Lecter about the recent increase in FBI activity.”

Hannibal started. “Thank you, Mr. Beamish. First I wanted to like to take this opportunity and thank—”

“Get to the point.” The schismatic bolshevik snapped.

Hannibal just stared. _Unlike Mr. Beamish, the Governor-General might not notice if Zhdanov disappeared…no, no,_ Hannibal thought disappointed, _to take that route the man would have to be boiled for sanitary reasons._ Calmly turning to look at the others, he continued as if nothing was said, “The point I must stress above all else: Do not meddle in Crawford’s affairs. Do not injure his men, and _most certainly_ do not seek to do them harm.”

“Well, why not use the foot-in-mouth cure?” Mason drawled.

“What?” Jeremy abruptly looked up from his planner.

Mason barely suppressed rolling his eyes. “If there’s no cow, the cow can’t get sick.”

 _Of course it’s the first thing they ask._ “Let’s not repeat the mistakes of Napoleon III, Mr. Verger.”

Jeremy chimed in, clearly trying to help. “Pittsburgh might be considering such a thing. But we would never—”

“Pittsburgh?” Kakos perked up for the first time.

Jeremy’s face immediately blanched as he realized he’d said more than he meant to. Hannibal suppressed another pained expression. The Governor-General was an intelligent man. How Jeremy Beamish came to be was a baffling mystery.

“Why not join in?” Mason asked. “Dead men tell no tales. And don’t retaliate.”

Ignoring the obvious, Hannibal continued, “What matters is, going forward, we all need to keep a low profile.”

“Low profile?!” Zhdanov shouted, jumping to his feet. _Is he wearing a…rope for a belt?_ Hannibal thought, momentarily distracted by the limp gray cord encircling the man’s waist. “So that’s whose fault it is!” The man turned on Seth, who was lounging back in his chair. “We wouldn’t be in situation if it wasn’t for you and your drug peddling cult!”

Seth lazily flicked his gaze upwards towards the man. “Do you have a problem with the quality of our product?”

Mason cut in, in an exaggerated drawl. “Oh, someone’s panties twisted you weren’t invited to the orgy?” Mason licked his lips loudly, in what Hannibal could only assume he thought was in a seductive manner. “Oh, and it was a _good one_ too.”

Zhdanov started spluttering in rage, his face slowly turning beet red. In idle curiosity Hannibal couldn’t help but glance over to Captain Fleischer. He was unsurprised to see the man wore an exasperated expression, muscles tensed ready to intervene at a moment’s notice.

Zhdanov promptly started muttering something in Russian under his breath.

Without looking up, Seth crisply replied, “At least she knew my father,” before rattling off a rather long phrase in Russian.

Clearly trying to salvage the rapidly deteriorating situation, Jeremy intervened before Zhdanov could respond, “Now, now, let’s stay focused! We all have other places to be this evening. You can save the side conversations for later.”

“Oh I quite agree.” Theodoros Kakos leaned forward, his face the picture of polite indifference, “I find the waste of time very _aggravating_. Perhaps next time, it would be best if I was briefed with the Council. After all, we were one of the first groups to settle in Baltimore, far before the arrival of even our _esteemed_ Governor-General.”

Hannibal tilted his head. He was curious if Jeremy would have a good response to this latest and subtler challenge to his authority. From the rapt silence, it seemed the others at the table thought the same.

Jeremy drew himself up. In his best attempt to look regal, he spoke. “While we are grateful for your historical contribution to Baltimore, unfortunately there is only room at such gatherings for the _most important_ of our civic leaders.”

Silence. _Apparently not._ Even the Bolshevik was momentarily speechless.

Then all at once, Kakos and Zhdanov started shouting in righteous fury, while Mason and Seth openly laughed. Briefly glancing over, Hannibal met eyes with Captain Fleischer. For the first time, Hannibal felt a pang of sympathy for the man.

“We were here before you were born! Before your grandfather was born!” Kakos shouted, half rising and pounding on the table for emphasis.

“I demand you treated me with the respect I am due!” Jeremy struggled to regain control of the situation.

“I am treating you with the respect which you are due!” Kakos bellowed back.

“Please, let’s have some decorum here!” Jeremy pounded on the table, trying to bring the room to order.

“My, my. I think I’ve heard that argument before.” Seth lazily added, lounging back, hands resting behind his head. The gesture would no doubt have looked more impressive, in a proper armchair. As it was, he very nearly overbalanced the chair and toppled over.

Zhdanov shouted, “Decorum? I know how you Knights of Philadelphia work! You do what you want, and when someone does something that offends you, you shout decorum!” Zhdanov was standing, eyes crazed, dark flecks of dirt shaking out of his beard as he bellowed.

“My apologies,” Jeremy strained. “We have no wish to give any offense to you and your Bolshevik colleagues.”

“Bolshevik! Bolshevik! How dare you call me a Bolshevik! I’ll have you know I am a Menshevist! Nika Rykova is the one with her lips on Lenin’s ass!”

Hannibal could see Seth then turn to Kakos, and the two begin a small conversation of their own, while Jeremy fruitlessly tried to placate the raging Russian.

“He destroyed the Russian Dream! He was the traitor of the cause!”

 _Joy._ Hannibal fought the urge to check his watch. _Well they can’t go any longer than dawn._

**FTRB Headquarters — Suzie’s Office**

Will Graham hesitantly knocked on the door to Suzie Hubble’s office.

“Come in.” She sweetly intoned.

Will stepped inside. The room was bright cheery yellow, with lots of framed photos hanging on the walls. _Family perhaps? And friends,_ Will thought, scanning the images of smiling men, women, and children. Closing the door behind him, Will paused as he saw a picture of a hunky shirtless fireman pinned up on the back of her door.

“I realize I never filled out my W-2.” He stated.

The elderly woman looked up from her computer monitor. “Right. That reminds me.” She spun her chair around and started rummaging through a filing cabinet. Pulling out a thick stack of papers, she dumped them in front of Will. “Here’s the benefits package. Oh, and here’s your health insurance card.” She placed the little plastic card on top.

Will nodded. “Thanks. Should I set up a direct deposit or something?” Behind her on the wall hung what looked like a wedding photo of her and Tom. It was strange seeing Tom with a full head of hair, in a military uniform.

Suzie waved a hand, “We can figure that out. Right now, we’ve been keeping track for you. Want a look?” She pulled up a spreadsheet and spun the monitor around for Will to see.

Will leaned back in shock. It was a far higher salary than he thought he’d ever earn. No, easily three times the salary he thought he’d ever earn.

Suzie laughed seeing his expression. “Well, there has to be _some_ level of compensation for the physical and psychological toll this job takes. You’ll find two kinds of people work here. The few who take a few years, earn the money, and burn out fast, and the ones who leave this job feet first. Remains to be seen which one you are.”

**New Orleans, LA — Evening — Day Three**

_Damn, damn, damn._ Freddie thought, as she stomped back toward her hotel. _What a rookie mistake._ She was still angry about losing Bolet the previous night. _Still, at least I have confirmation that Graham was involved. I suppose I could call Bolet back, go to his house, and press him for more…but no, he seems like the type to have a gun—and use it._

She’d spent the day trying to get interviews with other members of the NOPD who might have known Graham, but to her annoyance, none of them wanted to talk. The ones that did, hung up as soon as Graham’s name was mentioned.

She idly slapped at a mosquito. _And that’s another thing I need to remember. Bug spray. Lots of it. I don’t remember them being this bad last time I was here._

A few blocks away from her hotel, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She could hear the sound of two sets of footsteps behind her. _They’re not even trying to hide._ She took an abrupt turn towards what she hoped was the main tourist district.

Freddie quickened her pace as she rounded the corner, slipping her hand into her pocket. _Just two more blocks—oh shit._ Two more leather-clad thugs got out of a car at the end of the block, and were heading directly for her.

She glanced around, surveying the streets meager escape options. _‘Massage parlor,’ head shop, random house. Head shop it is._ She ducked into the dilapidated storefront, almost banging her head on the large wooden cannabis leaf hanging just outside the door. Dodging around the Bob Marley T-shirts and overpriced pipes, she pushed past the objecting clerk, through an ‘Employees Only’ door, and out the back into the opposite alleyway.

A rough hand grabbed her arm as she stepped out the door, and an unseen voice growled. “Don’t move. I don’t _want_ to hurt you.”

Freddie spun around, unsuccessfully trying to wriggle out of the hulking gorilla of a man’s grip. “Let go of me! What do you want?”

“Stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” _Shaved head, tattoos…he’s a low level enforcer of some sort._ He was holding an aluminum baseball bat in his other hand. Leering at her he said, “See this bat?” He let go of her arm, and she stumbled back a couple steps. Gripping the other side of the bat, he said, “You wouldn’t want me to do this to you,” and started bending the bat like a Twizzler.

Freddie, her hands now free, whipped her hand out of her pocket and blasted him in the eyes with a can of “Travel-Size Hair Spray.”

“Owweeeee!” He screamed as he dropped the bat to clutch his face. Freddie cackled as she sprinted away, not staying to watch the man writhe in pain. _Thank you ‘Militiaman’ Mike, nutter or not, I will never again make fun of you and your capsaicin contraptions._

**Baltimore — Johns Hopkins Hospital -- That Night**

Abigail lay curled up, the blankets tucked around her chin trying to sleep. Alana had long since chased everyone out after _another day_ of FBI intensive questioning. _At least she’s useful for something,_ Abigail rolled her eyes. Alana’s smothering was possibly even more annoying than Will’s weird reverence. While he thought she could do no wrong, Alana treated Abigail like a broken puppy. A puppy that needed tender rehabilitation, yet might bite if not handled correctly. _At least Alana comes and goes. I wouldn’t be surprised if the nursing staff saw Will as just another piece of furniture._ A small smile crossed her face as she thought back to his interactions with the FBI agents. While she appreciated his vocal defense, he was so tired, by the end he’d nearly face planted into Clayburn’s lap!

But, at the moment, she was rather envious of Will. _He at least finally falls asleep._ Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the moments right before her father stabbed her, her dropping her knife—and then she’d wake up, heart racing. _Where was the second knife, my knife? What happened to it?_ Any attempt at trying to recall the aftermath was futile. Her best hope was that they’d lost it in the shuffle. It wouldn’t take fingerprints to connect her to her father’s crimes. Just the presence of the second, smaller knife would surely be enough to condemn her.

On some level she always knew it was her or them. Part of her felt that it would have been better had her father just killed her, sparing all those other girls, but she always wanted to live, needed to survive. She could no more let her father kill her than sprout wings and fly.

 _The paintings were bad enough when it was just dad’s weird hobby. Dad was careful then._ Then Mr. Johnson showed up with his money, pressuring for more. _Always more, more paintings, more girls. The Feds noticed, and…well._

Part of her couldn’t help but resent Will. She wanted to believe that had _actual_ FBI agents lead the team, this wouldn’t have happened. But Mr. Johnson…he’d always been quick to anger, but then he checked his phone and just lost it. _God knows what he would have done anyway. He ripped dad’s throat out…_ Yet, as much as she wanted to hate her father, she couldn’t. She knew her dad was just trying to protect her, from Mr. Johnson, from himself, from a lifetime in state custody. She also knew he had his selfish reasons, but who didn’t?

She heard the sound of voices and the door open. _Dr. Lecter and Alana._ Vaguely curious, she made the decision to feign sleep.

Dr. Lecter’s calm voice carried through the door as it opened. “Taking her back up to Lancaster? It sounds as if they consider her a suspect.”

 _Shit._ That was the last thing she wanted to hear. It was over. _As soon as those stern FBI agents gets me into that house, they’ll figure it out._ With her father, she’d felt trapped, with nothing but a desperate hope that it would all work out, somehow, but with no reason to think it would. _Somehow I thought it would be better when the police found out, at least it would be over. But it’s not over. It hasn’t even started._

“It’s possible, but we should be quiet.” Alana dropped her voice to a hush. “We shouldn’t disturb her.”

 _Yawning, movement on the couch…Will is waking up._ “Hi…?” She heard him murmur, clearly vaguely confused as to his surroundings.

“Good evening Will. I see Morpheus called. I brought dinner. We shall eat when Abigail awakens.” Now Abigail slightly regretted feigning sleep. The food at the hospital was truly atrocious, and Dr. Lecter’s meals were one of the few things to look forward to in the drab hell-hole.

“Clayburn and Alderson want to take her to Lancaster?” Will asked groggily.

Alana sighed. In a pinched tone, she said, “They feel it would be the best way to learn more about what her father did. There are bodies missing, and families waiting for answers.”

 _Uh…this is not good._ Sure, she wanted to get her stuff, and maybe say goodbye to the house for one last time. But on her own terms! Not with the FBI scrutinizing her every move!

“I’m going with her.” Will stated resolutely.

“We’ll talk about this later.” Alana tried to brushed it off.

“I’m going with her.” Will repeated doggedly.

 _Fuck._ If there was any way to make the situation worse, it was having Will tag along for the catastrophe. Sure, he was awkward, and she didn’t particularly _enjoy_ spending time with him, but for reasons that baffled her, Will seemed to view her as this innocent naif, pure of heart and intention. She couldn’t help but feel like a fraud. _Great_. _I really didn’t think I could feel much worse._ Abigail could see the image of Will’s face, the expression of hurt and inevitable betrayal when he realized what she had done. And so another clock began, slowly ticking down to the inevitable disaster that awaited her in Lancaster.

**New Orleans, LA— Evening — Day Four**

_Ugh, good thing I paid with miles. They didn’t even give me a refund!_ Freddie groaned. The previous night had been awful. Only after sprinting for a several blocks, backtracking and sprinting again, was Freddie sure she’d lost the tail. Panting and out of breath she strolled into the hotel lobby, and made arrangements to check out and find a new hotel.

Now she was in some middling chain, with décor to match. _At least they have room service,_ she thought, still too scared to venture out. She’d spent the day pouring over her notes, trying to reassure herself that last night was just a creepily organized mugging, with a fancy parlor trick.

Starving, she ordered room service. As she waited, she ran herself a nice warm shower, inhaling the soothing ginger body gel she’d nicked from the much nicer hotel’s toiletries kit.

Emerging from the shower, Freddie sighed as she towel-dried her hair. _And here I was hoping this would be a nice vacation. Nope,_ she grimaced as she smoothed in a copious amount of styling cream. At least she had a recording of the conversation with Bolet. She might as well type the full transcript now—see if there was anything useful.

Collapsing at the sparse desk with the tape recorder, she heard a soft knock at the hotel door. She paused. The knock came again. Impulsively, she picked up the recorder and pressed record, tucking it behind the television set.

The knock came again, this time more insistent. She looked towards the window. _Shit. There was nowhere to run._ She was on the 14th floor. Quickly she tossed on a bathrobe. “Who is it?”

“Room Service, Miss Harper, you ordered food?” A man’s voice accompanied another knock. _Oh jeez._ Freddie almost laughed. The last couple days had made her so paranoid she had completely forgot the large cheesy fries and ice cream sundae with chocolate syrup she’d ordered.

She opened the door to find a lanky looking half-Asian man, with the general appearance of an undertaker or a low level public defender. There was no food. She quickly moved to close the door, but he had already jammed his foot between the door and the frame.

“Calm down,” his voice was soft and comforting. He smoothed back his smooth, shaggy brown hair. _Mousy is the color. Matching his eyes._ “We haven’t been introduced,” he said, he crooned. “You can call me Miles. Now open the door.”

**Somewhere Outside Georgetown University — That Night**

Donald McCusker hummed to himself as he walked out the lecture hall. Pausing, he removed his pistol from his briefcase, and put it back in the shoulder holster carefully concealed under his tweed jacket.

 _College campuses these days,_ he groused. _They think they’re magic gun-free zone posters will keep them safe._

He continued humming to himself as he walked down the street, constantly scanning his surroundings. _Jack was not going to like the Hobbs report_. The notes were tucked away in his briefcase, and though he intended to review them, he already knew what his conclusion would be. As much as it pained him to say, the Hobbs girl _was_ hiding something. Subtle perhaps, but Donald had done this for decades. She’d grown evasive when he asked about the intruder, and the moments before Graham’s entrance. She claimed she didn’t know the man. Yet, it seemed clear that the man was well known to her father and her.

He knew the girl was traumatized and any actions she committed were under duress, but it didn’t change the facts. _It is unfortunate,_ Donald though, _but for the best. Jack will want to hold her until the investigation is complete. But if she was involved in her father’s crimes—the extended stay at the Mountain Facility won’t be pleasant, but she’ll thank us later._

A woman’s piercing scream broke him out of his contemplation. _Sounds like it’s coming from that alley ahead._ Instinctively, his hand went to his holster, as he broke into a run, the hard cobblestones clattering under his feet.

Donald cautiously advanced into the alley, gun drawn. In the faint moonlight, Donald could make out the shape of a woman, lying face down in a pool of liquid, her long hair loose and fanned out on the ground. He looked around. The alley was empty, with just the dark shadows of the nearby buildings.

Cautiously, gun still drawn, he approached the woman. She lay in a puddle of blood, black in the moonlight. It looked like her throat had been cleaved open. Still, out of habit, he hunched down and took her pulse. _Dead._

 _Best to call this in._ He stood up, reaching for his cell phone, but was suddenly aware of a presence behind him, just out of arm’s reach. A light clearing of the throat. From behind. Whirling around, gun raised, he found himself staring into the dark maroon eyes of _Dr. Lecter?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late posting. Am currently at a wedding in Portland. Other than the bride, we know absolutely 0 people here...
> 
> And so we conclude part 2 of this story! Where to start...
> 
> Oh Beamish. We didn't originally intend on Beamish becoming a Franklyn foil. We just really liked the concept of having a super smart, powerful leader (Casselden-Haywood) have such a fail childer. Everyone knows that successful guy with the spoiled fail kid. Originally we were going to have a Franklyn make an appearance. (He still might), He was best friends with Clive Johnson, and was seeing Dr. Lecter for therapy. On editing we realized we were hitting a lot of the same humor with Beamish, and thematically it worked better. If people are interested we can Omake the Franklyn therapy scene.
> 
> Freddie, Freddie, Freddie. Girl, what have you gotten yourself into? (Seeing a pattern yet? :P )
> 
> So, any thoughts on what's going to happen? What are your thoughts on Hannibal's vampire colleagues? (They certainly aren't friends.) Any ones you want to see more of? Less of? They're mostly background characters, but its good to know which ones you find the most amusing.


	23. Omakes 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. This was supposed to get posted yesterday. Sorry everyone!

**Omake #2**

All events below probably happened. Author retains rights to say they didn’t at a later date. For now, whether or not they happened is up to the reader.

 

**An Evening at the Galloping Whale:**

“…And four o’clock—I’m gone,” said Brian Zeller, beginning to gather his belongings.

“What, you have plans or something?” replied Jimmy Price, looking up from the body of Garret Jacob Hobbs. He was attempting to get an impression of the teeth marks on Garret Jacobs Hobbs’ throat. It wasn't happening.

"Hell yeah! My part's done, and I got plans. The gym, a shower, and then time to find me some ladies.”

“Ladies?”

“ _Ladies._ ”

“It’s _Wednesday_. How are you going to find any ‘ladies’?”

“I have my talents.”

Jimmy paused for a moment, as if about to once again question Brian’s mojo, but apparently thought the better of it. He shrugged. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Brian just laughed.

Later that evening, Brian casually sauntered out of his apartment, clad in a clean shirt, nice and tight to show off his muscles. _Best thing about the apartment,_ thought Brian, _is that it’s right by some prime hunting grounds._

A few minutes later, Brian confidently sauntered into The Galloping Whale, his favorite neighborhood haunt. _Finally,_ thought Brian, _a break._ A few hours to forget the weird shit he saw at work.

As he walked in, Brian immediately noticed a pale brunette wearing jeans and a faded black AC-DC T-shirt, seated alone in the corner, reading a book. _Well, well, I guess Wednesday is my lucky night,_ he thought to himself, pausing at the jukebox to put on “ _In Your Eyes”_ before heading over to join her.

“Hey, I noticed you didn’t have a drink. Can I buy you one?”

She looked up. “Oh, its fine. I just had one. But don’t stop yourself.” She said nonchalantly.

“Oh come on, it’s no fun to drink alone.”

“Fine, fine.” She said smiling. “I’ll have a beer.”

“Any preference?”

“Surprise me,” she said with a smile, flashing bright white teeth.

***

“So, what’s your name?” asked Brian, returning with the drinks.

The girl smiled. “Mary. And you are…”

“Brian.” He took a long swig from his drink. For some reason, he found himself drawn to her eyes. They were this dark brown, with flecks of gold…

“So what do _you_ do Brian?” She asked, leaning towards him, He could feel his head starting to spin.

“Uh…FBI” He found himself responding. But, he knew chicks dug the FBI thing. Those eyes had a depth and warmth he couldn’t remember ever seeing anything like it before. _She’s hot, I think I’d do anything for her…_

“Oh.”

_Uh oh, that’s a bad sign,_ though Brian as she shifted slightly in her seat, she broke eye contact. Brian’s head cleared, and he blinked a couple times, his eyes dry. _Man, that was intense, but come on Z-dog, you haven’t even finished your first drink!_ “What do you do?”

Her eyes darted about the room, where moments ago there was warmth, Brian just felt a reserved chill. ““Uh…marketing.” She quickly replied. “Really boring stuff…”

“Not as boring as my job I’m sure. But I’m not here to talk about work, I’m here to talk about _you_.” He noticed she hadn’t touched her drink. “You going touch that? I’d say it was going to get cold, but…” He nervously laughed. _Dammit! I could have sworn there was a connection. That she was really into me. Maybe she’s playing hard to get._

She laughed, strained. “Yeah, yeah.” She took a sip, slowly, while continuing to watch him warily.

_Shit. Not even a comment on the choice of ales. Guess I have to fall back on the old standby…_ “You really do have the most beautiful eyes…”

She got up abruptly. “I’m sorry, I’ll be right back…” She snatched her purse and headed for the restroom.

***

After about 10 minutes, or when Brian had finished his beer, Brian knew he’d been stood up. Standing up, he looked sadly at the girl’s almost untouched drink. Shrugging, he picked it up. _No sense letting a good beer go to waste, especially when its Blue Moon._ After examining the now depressingly female-free room, he shrugged again, headed over to the bar, and ordered a jaeger bomb.

And as if on cue, a vibrant red head in a low cut, form fitting dress came in, and walked up to the bar. Best of all, she seemed to be alone. She wandered over to the juke-box, paused briefly to peruse the selection, finally settling on Peter Gabriel’s “The Book of Love”. _Not the classics, but would do._ He thought, impressed. _I'll have to show her some real music later._ As she walked over in his direction, he noticed how her hips swayed back and forth. She took a seat at the bar next to him.

_Daaaamn_ , he thought. _Time to turn on the ol’ Zeller charm._

“How’s your day going?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Terrible. Fucker stood me up. This is the last time I let my friend set me up on any blind dates.” She looked at him playfully, “How about you?”

“Same old, same old. So, you like Peter Gabriel?” He looked towards the jukebox approvingly.

“Oh I just adore him! Have you heard his album? _And I’ll Scratch Yours?_ ”

“Oh will you?” He laughed. Time to show her some real music, “Yeah, I just got it, but really, I prefer the classics. Allow me.” As her song came to an end, he rose from his barstool and sauntered over to the jukebox. He found a few coins left in his pocket and put on _“In Your Eyes_ ”, before returning to the bar. “That’s better. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, I suppose,” She said flirtatiously before laughing. “What do you recommend?”

Putting on his best smile, Brian called the bartender over, “I’ll take three fingers of rum, and the lady will have a naked orgasm, no, screaming orgasm, that’s what you call it.” He turned back to her. “Has anyone told you that you have the most beautiful eyes?”

She laughed. It was infectious, like SARS. “So what do you do?”

“I’m with the FBI.”

“Oooh.”

_Definitely a better reaction than last time._

“So have you shot anyone?” she inquired.

“No, no.” He replied reassuringly. “I’m in Forensics,” he admitted. _Not that there was anything wrong with that. Forensics is important too. Undervalued, but important._

She laughed and leaned forward.

Brian laughed as well, trying to control his eyes from widening at the view down her very low cut dress. The drinks arrived, and he gave her a screaming orgasm, before finishing the remains of his jaeger bomb and tucking into his rum. “So, do you have any hobbies, watch any sports teams…”

“Oh, I just love the New York Islanders!” She exclaimed.

“Really?” _His favorite musician and hockey team!_ This was even better than eyes chick. “What a coincidence! Me too! Ever since they moved to Brooklyn…”

***

He leaned forward conspiratorially, “You know, forensics is quite useful, For example, you can determine age at the time of death from the amount of carbon 14 in your teeth. I’d love to get a look at yours if you know what I mean.”

She giggled, “You must solve all sorts of interesting cases! What’s it like?”

“Ugh, Same as any job.” He stretched his legs out relaxing, “New guy at work, real weirdo. Showing everyone up.”

“Sorry to hear that. What’s he doing?” She leaned in towards him.

_Is that…lilacs?_ Brian thought, briefly distracted by her perfume. _Get a grip, man, get a grip._ “Yeah…real weirdo.” Brian paused. He knew he had to take precautions talking about work in public. _God knows what Jack would do to him otherwise._

“How about I order you another drink. Another rum? It’s my favorite.” She added, flagging down the bartender.

“How’d you guess?” He smiled. All their interests seemed to magically align. “Rum is my favorite. You know…” His heart was pounding, as he leaned forward to stroke her arm, “They say that sometimes you just meet someone…and hit it off…like everything falls into place…that’s what I see now…”

_That laugh again._ “So what’s it like, chasing down killers?”

The drinks arrived, and he took a long sip. _Well…what Jack doesn’t know won’t hurt him._ He leaned forward so he could breath in the scent of her perfume and said, “Well, do you promise not to tell anyone?”

***

He closed his eyes as he took a large swig of the glass. His head was pounding. He’d long lost count of how many drinks he’d had. He moaned. _This was going to hurt tomorrow_. Luckily he hadn’t used any sick days this year… “I _really_ don’t feel so well…” He managed to slur out.

Suddenly she rose from the bar. “It’s getting a bit crowded here.” She said suddenly. “Where’s your car? I can take you back to your apartment.”

“My apartment is around the block.” _Woohoo, tonight Zeller’s getting lucky!_

The walls were spinning. He tried to stand, but the floor started to lurch up to meet him. He ended up in her arms. “Baby,” he murmured at her as she helped him out of the bar, “if this were an 80’s movie, you’d be in the back of my DeLorean right now.

 

**The Next Morning — Brian Zeller’s Apartment**

Zeller awoke in a haze. _Where were my clothes_ …he rolled over and saw a lacy red and black bra hanging from the lamp beside his bed. The sheets were all in a disarray. _Jeez,_ _what a night._ His head pounded. Propped up on the table next to his bed there was something that looked like a phone number, but had been smudged out. _Just my luck. Was that…whipped cream?_ He saw an empty canister lying on the floor. He shook himself as he pulled himself out of bed in search of aspirin and water. _Ugh…_ he thought to himself. He didn’t recall having such a crazy night since undergrad, and even then, nothing this _…creative_. He picked up a pair of green fuzzy handcuffs strewn on the floor. _Damn. These aren’t mine._

 

**The Next Day — Science Building:**

“Did any of you see Lloyd’s message?” asked Jimmy Price, momentarily putting aside his work and turning towards Beverly Katz and Brian Zeller.

“No?” Beverly replied, tilting her head and pulled out her smart phone. They were sitting in one of the several work rooms in the building, reviewing case notes.

“He figured out who hired that photographer up in Lancaster. Said he managed to use the DHCP address of the connection’s primary identification, backtracked that to the outgoing port and proxy address, at which point he had the MAC address of the original computer—anyway it’s that tabloid reporter, Freddie Lounds.”

Beverly sighed. “She also posted the pictures on her website. That’s how he figured it out.” She turned her phone towards them, flipping through the gallery. “Oh, and look, here’s a picture of her. Good old fashioned sleuthing.”

Jimmy noticed Brian had turned sheet white. “You ok? You don’t look so well…”

 

**Later that Day:**

A few hours later, after Beverly had returned back her office, Lloyd Bowman came jogging into the room. Jimmy and Brian turned to face the newcomer. Like usual, he was well dressed, in his blue and white check shirt and pressed khaki pants. He held up his iPad. “Hey guys, look at who’s famous!”

Jimmy looked up to see a very unflattering photo of his colleague Brian Zeller passed out on the couch, drool running down his face, clearly very intoxicated.

“I think we should frame it. Hang it up in the Science Lab.” Lloyd was clearly enjoying this.

“Not bad, but I have to ask you, what were you thinking when you bought that shirt?” Jimmy chimed in, horrified at his colleagues half unbuttoned wine red button down.

Brian’s expression darkened. “Fuck you. Fuck you both.”

“Now, what have I told you about taking home girls you found at bars…” Jimmy solemnly shook a finger at Brian.

“Don’t say it…” Brian gritted his teeth.

Lloyd cut in. “Don’t stick your dick in crazy.”

“You’re just jealous.” Brian glared back.

Lloyd chuckled. “I don’t see _my_ picture all over the internet.”

 

**That Evening:**

“A FEW BRIBES? A FEW BRIBES? 5 KILOS OF COCAINE!” Jack Crawford bellowed.

Seated across the desk, Brian Zeller cowered.

“Higher had to throw it around Capitol Hill like fucking confetti! Have of the year’s coverup budget gone! In one night!”

“Can’t we just…go get some more…?”

“This is not what I expect out of the Science Team! Getting your picture taken? Manageable. Running your mouth? Both? What were you thinking!”

“I really don’t remember much of the evening…I think she slipped me something…”

“Yeah, three rums, a tequila, a Jägerbomb and two blue moons!”

“How do you know that!” Brian exclaimed.

“Bowman pulled the recipes from the bar.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks…” Brian rethought the statement. “Ok, it’s not as bad as Langton in New Orleans!” He rephrased.

 

**Just a Normal Day in the Office:**

Holding his morning cup of coffee, Will walked past one of the work rooms to see a very excited Bowman talking to Jack and Beverly. Bowman looked surprisingly casual, having eschewed his usual blazer or zip up sweater. He was holding a note pad, and it made Will exhausted just to look at him, he seemed so energetic. _That must be what the case of 5 hour energy in the Science canteen is for…_

Pausing by the doorway, Will poked his head in and listened.

“—But don’t you see they made the payments in Bitcoin!” Bowman continued, “Which, I’m sure you remember from last year’s briefing, every transaction is public! It’s the nature of the block chain! We can track the entire history of Bitcoins, every intermediary!”

Jack and Beverly furled their brows. Finally Jack spoke. “But what does that have to do with the duffle bag full of cash?”

Bowman exhaled, clearly annoyed that no one understood his explanation. “It’s like offshore banking, but with paintings. Should I start from the top?”

_It’s too early for this._ Will thought, walking away.

 

**Friday Night Drinks:**

As Jimmy Price left the room, Donald removed a red laser pointer from the breast pocket of his shirt, and started shining it on the floor. As he heard Jimmy answer the front door, a curious tabby kitten wandered out from under the coffee table.

_It seems Jay finally got here._

As the red beam danced across the floor, several cats appeared and started chasing it. Donald suppressed a grin. Last time Jimmy left the room, he and Jay had briefly considered tying a laser pointer to one of the cats to see what would happen.

A grey cat jumped up onto Donald’s lap, causing him to drop the laser pointer. As it hit the floor with a clatter, a couple cats descended onto it, now free to bat it around to their hearts content. Reaching down, Donald picked it up, and settled back into the chair just as Jay and Jimmy entered the room.

 

**Alternate Reality**

**It’s Not a Rocking Chair:**

“Please, let’s have some decorum here!” Jeremy pounded on the table, trying to bring the room to order.

“My, my. I think I’ve heard that argument before.” Seth lazily added, lounging back, hands resting behind his head. Unfortunately, he tipped the chair too far back, and toppled over with a crash and a puff of white powder.

There was a brief pause, before everyone resumed shouting, ignoring the spluttering Seth, now covered in cocaine. The only one watching was Mason who stood there pointing and laughing.

 

**Maybe I’m Overreacting:**

“Special Investigator Graham?” Clayburn pulled out a cheap Bic pen out of his breast pocket to consult his black wire bound notebook. “You’re the one who caught Garret Jacob Hobbs?”

Will nodded glumly. Clayburn shot his partner a significant look.

“We need to ask you a few questions. Can you come with us?”

_They know._ Will’s blood ran cold. _They know._ Without thinking, Will reacted. With one swift, fluid movement, he snatched the Bic pen out of Clayburn’s hand, and stabbed him in the throat. Blood spurted everywhere as Clayburn staggered back, unable to scream. Before Alderson could draw his gun, Will threw himself into Alderson. They crashed back into a medical cart, supplies flying. Clayburn collapsed on the ground, as the last bit of life gurgled out of his throat. Alderson struggled to push Will off. Will grabbed an needle with the IV still attached, and stabbed Alderson in the eye, pushing it further and further in. Alderson screamed in pain and fell to the ground. Kicking him sprawling, Will turned and threw Abigail’s room door open.

“Will?!” Alana shouted, standing protectively between a sleeping Abigail and the door. Distantly, a part of his mind told him he had nothing to worry. After all, he was careful not to get any blood on himself.

Ignoring her, Will grabbed the foot of Abigail’s bed, and started wheeling it towards the door, blocking Alana’s view of the dead agents. By now, Abigail had started to stir. He had to get her someplace safe. Pushing the bed, he tore down the hallway towards the elevator…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope we weren't too hard on Zeller. He's just so easy to make fun of. (Also we had some really bad science pick up lines we had to use.) Poor Jack.
> 
> We're taking a week off next week as we're between parts. Tidying up part 3 right now.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the silly, see you all then, and thank you so much for reading! :D


	24. Chapter Twenty Two

 

“…Subject’s attempts at emotional manipulation only heightens my concern. Very least aware of, if not involved in her father’s crimes. Recommend transfer to the Mountain Facility for further observation…”  
—Excerpt of McCusker’s Notes on Abigail Hobbs

“…Graham is unstable. Seems to be getting worse with time. Unsustainable coping mechanisms. Large concern that his principle emotional tie is with the manipulative Hobbs girl. Perhaps revaluate Graham in a couple years. Now, recommend getting Graham real emotional help.”  
—Excerpt of McCusker’s Notes about Will Graham

 

**Baltimore, MA — Dr. Lecter’s Home Office — Later that Night**

Carefully adjusting the needle, Hannibal closed the record player. The upbeat, martial tones of Johann Strauss’ _Kaiser-Walzer_ filled the room. Sitting down at his large wooden desk, he spread the contents of Donald McCusker’s leather briefcase across his dark green blotter. He had a limited window before the man was found, and Crawford sought to engage any electronic spies concealed amidst McCusker’s belongings. He’d already removed all the obvious things—phone, laptop, accompanying cables and accessories—and placed them in a special box Kakos had assured would prevent them communicating with their master. But, one could never be too careful about such things. The technological wizardry of humankind these past few decades was truly marvelous to behold, and not just for the consternation it caused the more senior of his Brethren.

Finally satisfied, Hannibal allowed himself to turn to the dead doctor’s notebook. Opening the black book, he started reading the scrawling short hand.

He started with Will. _Unstable, insightful, bordering on clairvoyant…risk of burnout…danger to himself and others…risk of betrayal._ Hannibal scoffed at the last. _As if Will would ever be tempted to sell them out to the Governor-General._ He turned the page. _Now this…yes, I could see Will deciding he had quite enough of Jack and deciding to strike out on his own._

He skimmed further. _Concerned that Graham’s underdeveloped support network and lack of stabilizing relationships creates a heightened risk of self-destructive behavior._ A thin smile crossed Hannibal’s face. _It seems I am just the friend Will needs._

Next, he turned to the notes on Abigail. Skimming, he found himself disappointed. From Alana’s comments, he had expected at least a modicum of competence from the man. However, it seemed he lacked the vision to even discern Abigail’s complicity in her father’s crimes, instead becoming distracted with musings on taking her into custody for further observation. He closed the notebook. Abigail’s complicity was certainly obvious enough to _him._

Carefully repacking the briefcase, Hannibal considered his options. Abigail aside, McCusker’s insight and curiosity had been inconvenient. Now, with him gone? Crawford should be much more susceptible to his influence.

Still, it was a pity. He very much wished he could display the doctor, give him an appropriate death, but such actions would merely serve to draw unwanted attention. He had been forced to settle for something _so_ mundane. _And he was such a wretched, ungrateful little man too. What a waste._

A light cough interrupted Hannibal’s thoughts. Looking up, he saw Bedelia DuMaurier, standing in the doorway, Scotch glass in hand. She was as always, impeccably put together. Tonight she wore a light brown herringbone suit, with a cream colored blouse, which nicely offset the blonde hair cascading in neat waves down her shoulders.

“You’re home,” she tersely remarked.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” He blandly replied, returning to his inspection of the papers.

He felt her cold gaze upon him, and the papers scattered across his desk.

“Ah.” He said, understanding the nature of her inquiry. “You do not approve?”

She pursed her lips, speaking slowly, “You have spent the last decade observing Crawford’s band from afar, never directly interfering. In fact, just last night, you instructed others to do likewise. _How soon the mind forgets_.”

He tapped the papers on the surface of desk, carefully aligning them. Placing them down, he rose, and walked towards the back staircase. “Care to join me outside?” he said with a roguish smile. “It would be a pity to waste such a lovely evening.” Reaching the downstairs, he stopped only to hold the back door for her as they stepped outside into the light evening air.

Behind his house stood a small walled garden, or the remains of a garden. It was utterly lifeless, consisting only of a series of carefully raked rock paths, stones of various sizes, and an empty concrete pit which had once held koi. The only sign of life was a Japanese Maple, standing stark and alone.

“Do you remember, Bedelia? When the garden was new, fresh, full of life?” He looked wistfully at the empty planters. He could recall happier days when he and Alana tended for the garden. Walking these stones now, without her by his side, it just didn’t feel the same. But, between her work and his _, where had time gone?_

Still standing by the door, Bedelia sipped her Scotch, “How so very American. Yesterday’s necessity becomes today’s leisure. What does tomorrow bring?”

He bent down, inspecting an empty planter. “Change,” he replied. _How distant it all seemed,_ he thought, Alana laughing, the two of them carefully placing brightly colored chrysanthemum’s into the dirt. _At the nursery, the garden full of colors—vibrant reds, yellows, oranges._ Now the courtyard it felt oddly empty. “Strange how the urge to bring forth new life comes so unexpectedly.”

He could hear the sarcasm in her voice, “You wish to return to the garden, yet how can you when you have so thoroughly poisoned the earth?”

Only two weeks ago he last conducted his monthly ritual of covering the garden in a concoction of herbicides and insecticides, yet even now he could see signs of weeds slowly returning. “Life endures, waiting for but the chance of nourishment.”

“What of your search for quiet, unchanging, perfection?”

He walked further into the garden, pausing to examine several carefully placed rocks. “This garden is perfection, static, unchanging. But I realize now, perfection is but a dangerous distraction. One must embrace the chaos and vicissitudes of life.”

“To live is to die.”

“To die is to live. Does not the prospect of death give life meaning?” Hannibal replied, in an amused tone, feeling a flutter of anticipation. _If I recall, last time Bedelia was the one making this argument,_ he thought as he ran a hand over the rough surface of a black stone.

She looked at him with skepticism. “Did you not once tell me, you were to be a rock, eternal, standing tall over the mayflies flitting about from one cause to another?”

“In time my views have evolved.” Hannibal approached the empty koi pond, reverently gazing down into the concrete hole. How previously it was full of large beautiful koi, red and gold beneath the rippling waters. Alana loved the fish. When her job made it difficult to visit, she’d been overjoyed when he offered to move them closer to her new home. “We could start here. Two koi, a male and a female? Both full of energy and life and potential?”

Her voice was closer, beside him. “Take care, once you introduce them, you cannot in good conscience abandon them.”

He looked up at her, genuinely surprised, and slightly hurt. _How could she say such a thing?_ “Abandon them? Why would I? Why would I deprive myself of the chance to see them grow, develop, change?”

She slowly started circling the pond. “Are you not concerned for their safety? As we have seen before, this is not the most welcoming environment for such creatures.”

Removing his hand from the rock, he casually brushed off the dirt, “I am fully confident that we can give them a home far better than what they have now.”

 

**FTRB HQ — Jack’s Office — The Next Morning**

Jack Crawford stifled a yawn. His body desperately craved coffee, tea, _anything,_ but he didn’t dare touch anything but decaf. He’d already pushed his limits up in the mad scramble out in Pennsylvania. He didn’t dare court another heart scare brought on by overuse of stimulants. Sighing, he glanced at the yellow kitchen timer on his desk. _Two hours, then I can have another cup._

The routine report he was reading did not help. _A string of deaths up in Vermont—necromantic involvement suspected. Let McLaughlin and his roving team cover it. Just thinking about the drive makes me tired._

A knock on the door interrupted his musings.

“Come in,” he called out, without looking up. _This better not be Bowman with another grenade._

Beverly entered, her black hair pulled back in a messy bun and her brow furrowed in worry. “Have you seen Donald?” She asked, concern evident in her voice.

Jack looked up sharply. “Isn’t he with Graham?”

“No, Graham just texted. Donald didn’t show.”

Suddenly, Jack wasn’t the least bit tired.

“And before you ask,” Beverly continued, “he isn’t answering any of his phones, no one’s seen him this morning, and his car’s not here. It’s not at his house either. I sent Langton and Willingham over to check.”

“When did we last hear from him?” Jack asked, with rising dread.

“Last night, right before his talk.”

Jack recoiled as if struck, yet forced his face to remain impassive. He remembered conversations like this before, in the early days, when they were less experienced, less careful.

“Tell Will not to wait.” He forced himself to keep a level tone. “And get Spurgen, Tom, and Suzie in here.”

 

**Baltimore, MA — Dr. Hannibal Lecter's Home — That Evening**

Hannibal Lecter stood in his parlor, scrutinizing his surroundings for the slightest flaw. Behind him, blazed a merry fire. Around him the room flickered and danced in the light of the fire, shadows playing across the patterned, light green wallpaper, obscuring and illuminating the carefully curated selection of paintings decorating the walls. Above the hearth, hung the head of an antelope, it’s curly black antlers glistening in the firelight.

Nodding, Hannibal retrieved a bottle of 22-year-old Blair Athol Single Malt Scotch, placing it together with a pair glasses on a low coffee table before the fire. He inspected the light blue Chesterfield couch, and a pair of bottle green velvet chairs, tidying the throw pillows. Finally, satisfied that everything was in order, he returned to the library to await his guest.

Upon hearing from Alana of Dr. McCusker’s _surprising and tragic_ passing, Hannibal’s thoughts had immediately turned to Will. No doubt, Will’s feelings would be complex and unfamiliar, rendering him in need of guidance. It would not do for someone else to take advantage of the boy’s uncommonly vulnerable state, or fill his head with even more nonsense about duty and sacrifice. Indeed, relief had flooded the younger man’s voice when Hannibal suggested he drop by.

The doorbell rang.

Rising, Hannibal minutely adjusted his suit jacket, and made his way to the front door.

He opened the door, and had to suppress a smile. As expected, the inner turmoil afflicting the younger man was palpable, at least to one as talented as he. _Of course, Crawford’s amateurs missed it entirely._

“Thank you.” The younger man took Hannibal’s extended hand. It was rough, calloused, in a way only someone who had seen physical work. “I needed to get out of there.”

“Oh?” Hannibal asked, reluctantly releasing Will’s hand, and helping Will remove his ratty dark green khaki jacket.

“They had a wake. They meant well, inviting me. But I could only stay so long, stuck on the outside, looking in through fogged glass, deliberately invited but then forgotten.”

“You felt isolated, apart from your colleagues.” Hannibal observed, ushering Will down the hall and into the parlor.

Immediately, Will sunk onto the couch directly in front of the fire. The flickering light cast a harsh light onto the younger man’s face, starkly illuminating the pain and frustration in his delicate features. “Every aborted story, every stray glance, each a reminder that I remain on the outside, looking in.”

With great care, Hannibal poured two glasses of the deep caramel colored liquor. Approaching, Hannibal handed Will a glass, allowing the tips of his fingers to linger, just a moment, barely brushing those of the younger man. Drawing away, he took a seat in a velvet chair beside the couch.

Leaning back in the chair, Hannibal carefully considered his approach. “It goes beyond that, Will, does it not? Workplace isolation is known to you. You would not make such a drive were isolation all you felt.”

The boy’s shoulders tensed, his eyes pleading, begging Hannibal to set such inquiries aside. But for the boy’s own sake, Hannibal pressed on. He gave the younger man what he hoped was a comforting expression. “We are now beyond polite fictions, are we not? I am not Jack Crawford, nor Alana Bloom.”

The younger man relaxed slightly, briefly closing his eyes. He took a long sip from his glass.

“You feel something about Dr. McCusker’s death,” Hannibal continued, “yet, what you feel is not what you feel you should.”

Will immediately tensed, his eyes nervously flitting about the room. Hannibal resisted the urge to reach over and knead the sudden knots of worry from the younger man’s shoulders. _But no. This is for his own good._

Still, Hannibal pressed on. “But why should it be any different? You did not know him. Indeed, you found his inquiries disconcerting, at times even alarming. There is no shame in what you feel. After all, was his death through any fault of yours?” Hannibal cracked a small smile. “No, I think not. So, for what sin ought you feel such shame?”

“Something, anything. Not…not nothing. Not this.” Will replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Is it nothing you feel? Or is it something else, something else that worries you?”

Will shifted nervously in his seat, before rising, glass in hand, to pace nervously about the room.

Hannibal suppressed another smile. _Now, for the final truth._ “What you feel, Will, is relief. And rightly so—you need not feel ashamed.”

Will froze, motionless but for the rapid beat of his pulse at his throat. The younger man’s face was pale, his blue eyes wild, his lips slightly parted, and the many deep lines of worry and wariness illuminated clearly in the warm flickering light of the fire.

Hannibal met the younger man’s gaze, a look of deep compassion coming over his features. “One would not, after all, fault a man his relief upon receiving a stay of execution.”

Silently, Will shook his head.

Hannibal watched as Will withdrew into himself, as if he hoped to disappear. _It would be a shame for such a brilliant mind to waste away under such a trivial matter as guilt._ He just needed to get Will to accept who he truly was. Seeing that Will had emptied his glass, Hannibal rose to approach Will and refill. “Taking responsibility for one’s own failings is the work of a lifetime.” Hannibal wryly observed. “Seeking responsibility for those of others is simply madness.”

Will watched, wordlessly, as Hannibal refilled his glass, his eyes clinging firmly to the glass.

Hannibal suppressed a sigh. _I suppose one cannot overcome a lifetime of self-destructive behavior in one evening._ Slowly, carefully, Hannibal extended a hand and, lightly lifting Will’s chin, rough stubble beneath his fingers, and looked into the younger man’s eyes. They were a soft grey blue, wide, and defenseless. Gently, Hannibal spoke. “If you cannot accept your own relief, think of Abigail. This tragedy will, at least, free her from the yoke of his unfounded suspicion.”

Will slowly started to nods.

_After all, Will saved Abigail, it was only appropriate that she save him._

***

Kurt Spurgen followed Jack into his office. Entering, Kurt wordlessly surveyed the room. It seemed strangely smaller, emptier. The trappings were the same, the overflowing inbox, the large map. But Donald McCusker was gone, and with him, a piece of each of them.

The wake downstairs was breaking up, with groups peeling off in twos and threes, and as Jack made his exit, Kurt followed. There was no way Kurt was going to let Jack sit alone and brood all night.

Kurt sat down, heavily, in a seat across from Jack, Donald’s seat forlorn and empty beside him. He watched as Jack opened his bottom desk drawer, retrieving a bottle of Maker’s Mark and two glasses. Slowly, Jack removed the red wax covered cork, poured two liberal portions, and handed one to Kurt.

“Absent companions.”

“Absent companions.”

Kurt sipped his drink. _To think, after all he did, after all he survived…An ordinary mugger. Sure, Langton and Willingham will send ‘round pictures of his watch and briefcase, not that it’ll do any good._

The silence stretched on, an old and comfortable friend, as Jack and Kurt sipped their drinks. Idly, Kurt studied the large wall-mounted incident map, silently matching pins to paragraphs from his morning briefings. _So much to do,_ he thought, not for the first time, _and so little time. It’s a damn good thing most of the creepy crawlies mostly mind their own business, or we’d never have a prayer of keeping up. As it is? It’s just damn hard._

Eyes drifting to the edge of the map, Kurt was surprised to see an extra slip of paper, stuck to the edge of the map with a pin of its own. “Jack, since when do we have anyone in the Azores?”

Jack didn’t turn. “Came in this afternoon,” he flatly replied, still staring off into the distance. “Odd reports from a sub, regular Navy. They’re sending Admiral Thurlow-Plunkett and his kraken hunters. If there’s anything there, that old pirate will find it. And if not, well, he’s damn well earned a few days’ relaxation.”

Kurt grunted in approval. Far as he was concerned, the Admiral was the exception that proved the rule that the Navies were all stuck up pricks. _If only the NSA crowd was as much fun carousing, well, we might still be on speaking terms…_

The silence dragged on. _God, things just won’t be the same with Donald gone. He was an institution. Here before me, before Jack even. Hell of a hole to fill._

Jack refilled their now-empty glasses. “Kurt, were you able to find Donald’s notes on Graham and the Hobbs girl?”

Kurt shook his head. “No. If he had any, he had them with him.”

Jack grimaced. “Dr. Lecter it is, then.”

Kurt cracked a small smile. _Even at times like this, Jack sure can cut through the bullshit. God that’s an hour-long staff meeting I’m glad we won’t need._ He looked up at Jack. “Short term? Or long term?”

“Short term. For now.” Jack gruffly replied. “Think of it as a try-out.”

“And what if he fails them? Send them off to Chilton Land?” Kurt was glad it was just them in the room. _The last thing we need is Suzie and Alana winding each other up over this._

“I’d rather not let that son of a bitch lord another one over us.” Jack growled. “God knows, he has enough.”

“Cross that bridge when we come to it then,” Kurt soothed. A while back, before his time, Jack had briefly run an extraction unit for Dr. Fredrick Chilton and his _esteemed_ Mountain Facility. As Tom told it, ‘Professional differences’ had forced a reassignment. As Suzie told it, Jack punched Chilton out in a staff meeting. _But still, we can’t deny that he’s got the best holding facility east of the Rockies. And he did do a decent enough job with Sutton, even if the boy did need a year of further work with McCusker after Chilton cut him loose._

Jack set down his glass. “Kurt, do you feel we’ve lost the initiative?”

 _Huh? Where’s this coming from?_ Kurt frowned. “We’ve had a good run here in Baltimore.” Kurt replied. “Hell, this past year has been quiet enough we’ve spent most of our time out-of-town.”

Jack shook his head. “How long did we spend on the Hobbs case before we got a break? I worry we’re spending too much time reacting when we should be _acting._ ”

Kurt thought back, tapping his finger on his nearly empty glass. “Five months? Off and on.”

“Exactly.” Jack leaned forward. “And what was the break? Graham and his intuition, it wasn’t anything we did. All to catch a technician working a nine to five.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Baltimore. I don’t think we’ve won here. They keep a lower profile, but the signs are still there if you look. ‘Deeper than we thought, from Bowman’s findings these past couple weeks.”

Kurt shrugged. “If you want to say ‘release the hounds’, you won’t get a fight from me. But we gotta be careful. Don’t want to start something we can’t stop.” _Don’t want to start something if we can’t take the casualties._

Jack nodded in thought.

“Oh, whatever became of that annoying reporter?” Kurt asked.

Jack shrugged. “She hasn’t posted anything about us since. She must have learned her lesson.”

 

**New Orleans, LA — Day Three — Earlier that Day**

Freddie woke with a pounding headache. She was lying on the side of the bed, still in her bathrobe. _Oh god, What happened?_ She struggled to her feet and clutching the wall, stumbled her way to the bathroom. She then spent the next thirty minutes praying to the porcelain god.

 _What the hell. What did I do?_ Finally clamoring to her feet, she lurched out of the bathroom, wiping the vomit from her face, and surveyed the room.

Half of a bottle of vodka, several shot-sized bottles of liquor…had her conversation with Bolet gone that wrong? Swaying, she stumbled over to her bag, and pulled out her notebook to figure out what the fuck happened.

 _Fuck!_ Her tape recorder was missing. As she frantically glanced around the room, she noticed a piece of paper on the desk. The paper was smoothed out, as if someone was desperately trying to undo the damage of shoving it into a pocket. It was a checklist, no, a list of questions. About Will Graham, about _her._ She frowned. It wasn’t her handwriting. _I don’t remember letting anyone in? Please don’t tell me I picked up someone at a bar…_

Still in a haze, she started picking up and organizing the half drunk and empty liquor bottles, only to discover her tape recorder propped up behind the television set. _What the hell? Oh God, it’s full. Might as well get this over with._ Sighing, she sat down heavily on the side of the bed and rewound.

“You can call me Miles…” a young man’s voice said. “How many drinks does it take to get black out drunk?” _From the audio, it sounds like a youngish man. Handsome sounding, like Hugo Weaving. Confident, a take charge kinda guy,_ she thought, momentarily wondering why she’d think such thing.

“Depends on the person?” It was her voice. Her voice. She had spoken to him before. She vaguely remembered setting up the recorder behind the TV set…but not why or when. _He was in this room. Oh God, this is going to be embarrassing. Please don’t let there be pictures._

Preparing herself to hear some awkward one night stand, she continued listening to the tape. “I mean,” the man now sounded exasperated. “How many drinks does it take to get _you_ black out drunk.” _Who asked questions like that?_ She thought, _That’s like the creepiest pick up line ever._ She berated herself. Had her standards fallen that low?

“7? 8? More? It’s been a while. Depends over how long. I regularly drink guys under the table.”

There was a long pause, and the sound of something rustling. Perhaps a bag opening? “Ok. Drink this.” The rustling was followed by the sound of many little clinking bottles.

 _Why would I listen to him?_ Her blood rising with panic, she rewound the tape to the beginning. It was her voice that started the tape. From the muffled quality it sounded like she was at the door. “Yes, can I help you?”

Freddie listened to the opening exchange with horror. She let him in! _Was he that good looking?_ A queasy feeling of dislike started to simmer.

“Now, I’ve heard you’ve been poking around the city, asking questions. What exactly are you investigating?”

Part of her relaxed. _So this wasn’t some sort of horrible one night stand gone wrong._ The other part of her started to panic. _Somehow they found me? Who are they?_

“I’m an investigative journalist. I write articles that create ad revenue. The stranger the better, people—“ Freddie cringed in horror. _Scrap the part about it not being embarrassing._ She berated herself. _You don’t just tell people that!_

The man started again. “No…no…uh…let me try again.” The man took a deep breath. “Why are you writing about Will Graham?” _That bastard._ An intense anger flushed over Freddie. How did he find her hotel room? It was under a different name! One she hadn’t given to _anyone_ in the course of her investigation!

“Will Graham is exactly the type of story that drives traffic.” Freddie listened to herself cheerfully explain. “The FBI hiring someone unstable? Leaves his previous job under mysterious circumstances? People eat that up!”

“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve uncovered?”

“Well, when I started off, this is after I left my job as a copy editor, see I was asked to cover this convention in Raleigh…”

“No, no no.” The man’s voice muttered exasperatedly.

“—But it wasn’t a business convention see, it was a Bigfoot convention, and there was this furry…”

“Stop, stop stop.” There was another pause. “Let’s try this again. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve uncovered about _Will Graham.”_

 _Why am I listening to him?_ She heard herself helpfully respond, “He got fired, FBI swoops in right after, takes him away, leaving a wake of destruction through the NOPD. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall during that conversation. What stories he must have told to gain immunity. Sold his colleagues up the river. I can see the headline…Something’s rotten in the city of New Orleans: The Crescent City Rat” _Oh, that was good, I”ll have to remember that one,_ she thought. But it still didn’t alleviate the sickening anger bubbling up in her stomach.

“One last question. Do you know what a hemophage is?”

“Uh…that sounds like an airborne illness.”

“Ok, uh, do you think vampires, werewolves and fairies exist?”

“No? How old do I look?”

“Ok, just checking. How many drinks—“

Freddie re-listened in disbelief. Was this man holding a gun to her head? Maybe? Yet her voice showed no sound of duress. In fact it sounded oddly relaxed and open, like she was glad to help him.

“Oh crap.” He muttered. She cringed at his incompetence. _Why the hell did I think he was handsome before? He’s an idiot!_ Rage boiled up inside. He continued, “I was going to give you this sleeping pill to…oh well, here’s half. Take this one too, wait, no…no its good. Yeah and if that doesn’t work,” There was a clunk on the table, clearly the large vodka bottle. “Drink some of this.”

 _He’d regret this._ She seethed. She was going to make it impossible for him to leave his house without people recognizing him. His phone lines and address would be inundated with junk calls and porn magazines. Every dirty, annoying, obnoxious trick she’d seen, used, or heard about was going to get thrown at this fucker.

His voice continued, “Ok, now you’re not going to remember any of this. You’re going to remember going to the liquor store around the corner, buying this and getting shit faced. And you’re not going to remember ever meeting me.”

_Fuck. Not only was he an asshole, he was a hypnotist._

 

**Baltimore, MA — Port Haven Psychiatric Facility**

Sensing someone approach, Will looked up to see a nurse regarding him and Dr. Lecter impatiently. Abigail had fallen asleep some time before, earlier than normal, no doubt exhausted by the move from Johns Hopkins to the Port Haven psychiatric facility. Will and Dr. Lecter had been talking quietly in the hall outside her room, ready to intervene should some crisis emerge during the night.

“It’s 9pm, gentlemen. I’m sorry, all visitors had to leave an hour ago.”

Will frowned. _She certainly doesn’t seem sorry._

Dr. Lecter stood up, regarding the nurse warmly. In his pale brown, windowpane suit and matching paisley tie, he struck the perfect image of gracious professional courtesy. “Of course. My friend and I will be on our way.”

After a moment, Will rose as well, and followed Dr. Lecter towards the exit. As they walked, Dr. Lecter turned to Will. “Agent Crawford called earlier today. In Dr. McCusker’s absence, he asked if I could complete a psychiatric evaluation for you and Abigail.”

Will’s heart stopped. He wasn’t sure what was worse, that he’d foolishly begun to genuinely think of Dr. Lecter as a friend, or that Dr. Lecter would accept such a proposal.

“What did you say.” Will said coldly, resuming pace with the psychiatrist.

“That is what I wished to discuss with you. It would be most presumptuous of me to accept such a charge with someone I have become so close to. I of course do understand if you wish that I decline.”

“Oh?” Will wasn’t expecting that response. However he kept his head down, inspecting the laminated floor as he walked, unwilling to look the doctor in the eye. Will knew he’d pushed his evaluation as long as possible. Fate had delayed the inevitable for a few more days, but eventually Jack would get his report, one way or another. _I might as well get this over with. At least this way it won’t be a stranger._ He hoped there was a small chance that the man standing next to him did not find him a danger to himself and others. “Fine.” Will replied, glancing up at Dr. Lecter. “When do you start?”

“Now.” A mischievous smile crossed Dr. Lecter’s face. “You passed.” He retrieved an envelope from inside his jacket, and handed it to Will. “Congratulations.”

Incredulously, Will took the envelope. “You wrote that before we talked?” He looked at Dr. Lecter skeptically. “Before I said yes.”

A conspiratorial glint flickered in Dr. Lecter’s eyes. “I know you well enough. If you had said no, this letter would have become kindling, forever unseen. There are, no doubt, some small difficulties with anxiety and empathy, but as Agent Crawford emphasized, the primary focus must be on possible impediments to your work. After all our many conversations, I can determine the answer is _no._ ”

Will slid the envelope into his green khaki jacket pocket. “Uh, thanks. I guess.”

A genuinely warm smile spread across Dr. Lecter’s face. “You’re quite welcome.”

 

**New Orleans, LA — Day Five — The Next Day**

After a frantic change of hotels, this time to a dingy motel by the side of the highway, Freddie had spent the rest of the prior day in bed, with a bottle of wine and two pints of ice cream, watching TV, reviewing her notebook, and shaking off the rage and frustration of what she’d discovered.

Determined to catch any more unwanted visitors, she put a new tape in the recorder, and turned it on, before going to bed. When she awoke the next morning, she checked. _Nothing._ _No midnight visits from some jackass hypnotist._ She would find that fucker. And she would make his life a living hell.

But, before she started Google stalking every Miles that lived in New Orleans, Freddie decided she should get out, conduct the investigation from someplace nice, public, and untraceable.

Two bus rides later and a long walk later, Freddie was sitting in a large, crowded internet cafe. Technically it was one of those fancy grocery stores, but the upstairs had a large cafe with plenty of exits.

She opened her heavy Dell laptop, and booted up linux and then Tor, still pissed that Crawford had her Macbook. One was certainly easier to travel with. She kept this one for her deep web shit. _Hmm…hemophage…_ she typed into the search box and hit enter _…and nothing?_ _That’s odd._

Useless results were one thing, but nothing? She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened, at least while conducting a general search. A few minutes of clicking revealed that _none_ of the major search engines could find anything.

 _Well, lets try this again,_ Freddie thought. As far as she could tell, the word _looked_ Latin. But no, the online translators had nothing.

 _What’s the point in all these fancy tools if you just have to do it the old-fashioned way?_ She grumbled, noticing a theme of this trip. _Hemo-phage. Hemo means blood. And phage means, what—eater? Is this a mosquito?_ Freddie was interrupted by her phone alarm—30 minutes had passed. _And with that, time to leave._ She thought. _It’s only paranoia if they’re not out to get you._

Freddie made her way back to the bus stop, to begin her circuitous trip back to the motel. She glanced around for eavesdroppers, but there was no one around except a tween girl, nose buried deep in a book. _Safe enough,_ she thought.

Freddie put in her earbuds and queued up the Miles recording, listening to it for what must have been the 10th time.

“One last question,” she heard him ask. “Do you know what a hemophage is?”

“Uh…that sounds like an airborne illness.” She heard herself awkwardly reply.

She paused the tape. _Do I know what a mosquito is? That can’t be right. A blood gorger? Blood eater? Some sort of parasite? But that doesn’t explain Miles and the creepitude._

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of her bus. _Some vacation this is turning out to be. Maybe I should have just stayed in Baltimore. And I thought Graham was weird—“Do you know what a hemophage is?” Even he’s not that bad._

Freddie stood to the side to let the tween reader squeeze past, nose still buried in her book. As the girl passed, Freddie couldn’t help but peer at the book’s title. _Twilight. Of course, Nothing but a bad Anne Rice knockoff._

Rolling her eyes, Freddie resumed the recording.

Miles’s voice returned. “Ok, uh, do you think vampires, werewolves and fairies exist?”

Freddie’s blood ran cold. _You’ve got to be shitting me._

 

**Outtakes from Hannibal’s Conversation with Bedelia (Parts Might Have Occurred or at least the General Sentiment):**

“I am protecting the people I care about.” Hannibal said earnestly.

“Because you had her father killed?” She looked at him incredulously.

“And Will as well.” He reminded.

“What? Did you kill his father too?”

He could barely find the time to hit the garden with roundup every few weeks. It was somewhat meditative, spraying down the garden, dressed in his protective clear plastic suit cover incase of a change in the wind. After all, it wouldn’t do to get chemicals on his suits.

“Aren’t you concerned that Crawford will investigate the _death_ of his psychiatrist?” Bedelia cast him a worried glance.

He looked at her with incredulity. “It contains none of my usual hallmarks! I didn’t take any organs! I didn’t mutilate the body! I even made sure to keep a low profile!”

Bedelia just rolled her eyes.

“To live is to die.” Bedelia reminded.

“To die is to live. Does not the anticipation of death give life meaning?” He looked at her solemnly.

“Why have your thoughts taken on such a morbid turn? Should I be worried about leaving you unattended with the household cleaners?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Starting the final part of this book!
> 
> We write the Hannibal and Bedelia scenes together, usually talking them out loud as we go. I usually end up arguing as Hannibal, my fiancé as Bedelia. The outtakes were actual bits of dialogue we had. I think this is one of my favorite Bedelia and Hannibal scenes.
> 
> Originally we were going to have a staff meeting after McCusker’s death. We then realized we could hit all the same points in a short scene between Jack and Spurgen. After all, most of it turns into Suzie wanting to send Abigail and Will to Chilton land, and Alana flipping out. 
> 
> We also were also originally going to have Will go back to Hannibal's office for the rubber stamping scene, but felt that since he went to Hannibal's house like the day before, it was moving too quickly. After all, Will isn't an easy lay. :P
> 
> Thank you for reading! :D :D See you all in two weeks!


	25. Chapter Twenty Three

_“…In summation, although Graham’s past experiences have left him withdrawn, he is remarkably resilient, and has developed exceptional coping mechanisms. Finally, despite his short time in Baltimore, he is already making new connections…”  
—Excerpt of Hannibal’s report to Jack _

**Baltimore, MA — Dr. Lecter’s Home — A Couple Days Later**

Beverly looked with awe as Dr. Lecter placed an elegantly plated dish in front of her. Carefully centered on the white china plate was the breast of something that looked a bit like dark chicken, but was clearly not, draped with a deep red sauce, and elegantly garnished with pomegranate seeds. Beverly could not recall ever seeing something that looked—or smelled—so delicious. She also could not understand how the doctor managed to look so perfectly groomed and poised after what must have been a grueling several hours in the kitchen.

They sat at a long wooden table in Dr. Lecter’s gorgeous, if eccentric, dining room. Dark blue walls, textured _…was that stacked molding?_ A lovely fireplace crackling away on one wall, an entire herb garden growing in front the other. The lighting was low, mimicking the soft glow of candle light. In the center of the table ran a light purple table runner with beautiful floral and feathered centerpiece sitting on top.

“This looks delicious,” Jack said, eyeing the food in front of him appreciatively. “What am I about to eat?”

“Duck a la gastrique served with a pomegranate reduction. A most auspicious fruit, although of course the chosen meaning varies culture to culture. While the Ancient Greek saw it as a symbol of death and the underworld it was repurposed by European Renaissance painters as a symbol of the fullness of Jesus Christ’s suffering and resurrection. I myself prefer the Ancient Egyptian meaning, where it was regarded it as a symbol of prosperity and ambition.”

Jack nodded eagerly. “Fascinating.”

Beverly murmured in polite agreement.

The previous day, while sitting in her office, she’d received a call from Jack. Dr. Lecter wanted to have him for dinner, and said he should bring a plus one. While it went unsaid, it was clear Jack wanted a second opinion on Dr. Lecter. Usually such an invitation would go to McCusker, but in his absence… _Besides, it’s not like he could bring Tom. And I’m pretty sure Spurgen doesn’t even own a suit._

Beverly had been surprised when she heard that Hannibal would be completing the evaluation of Graham and Hobbs. Usually, Jack would have Bowman running background checks for months before considering giving an outsider work. _Still, he’s not a complete unknown. I’ve never seen Alana so strongly recommend someone._ As he gracefully took a seat at the head of the table, she eyed his blue and orange plaid suit, something that _should_ look awful on any human, but wow, Dr. Lecter rocked it. Glancing at Jack’s black suit, and her shirt, jacket, and blouse combo, she felt downright shabby.

Jack took a bite of the duck. “Delicious.”

“Thank you.” Dr. Lecter gave a slight smile. Well, as much of a smile as Beverly thought he was capable of. The man seemed like bullet proof glass, absolutely impenetrable. _Seriously, what hair product does he use?_ Beverly thought, noting that not a strand was out of place.

_Mhm, the duck is good._ Beverly thought, taking a bite into the firm, juicy flesh. The tang of the sauce complimented the rich flavor of the meat. She reached for her wine glass, filled with some fancy French red, that Dr. Lecter had explained at length at the start of the meal, and which she’d promptly forgotten. It complimented dinner perfectly.

“How is Graham?” Jack asked.

“Most likely at the hospital with Miss Hobbs and Dr. Bloom.” Dr. Lecter replied.

_Oh Will…_ At first it had seemed harmless, even sweet in its way, but as Will’s behavior continued, she didn’t know what to say. _If only McCusker was here,_ she thought. They’d had an unstated understanding. _Someone_ needed to reign in Jack’s more extreme impulses. But if it was only one person, Jack would just shut them out, the way he’d shut out Alana. So, they traded off the role, and he continued to listen, and turn to both for counsel. _Now it’s just me._

Finishing her bite, Beverly spoke up. _Might as well,_ “Aren’t you worried Will’s spending too much time at the hospital? It sounds like the field office is concerned.”

Lecter nodded towards Beverly, face inscrutable as usual. “I understand your reservations. However, his experiences in New Orleans left him isolated, and made it difficult for him to connect with colleagues. Abigail does not pose such challenges.”

_I wish I could be so confident,_ Beverly thought, before replying, “Will’s been through a lot, he needs support we can’t easily provide.” She leaned forward, “But after what she’s been through? I don’t think she can give him the support he needs.”

Jack looked expectantly at Dr. Lecter.

After methodically finishing his bite, Dr. Lecter responded. “Perhaps in an ideal world, Will would have someone else to turn to. A family member, or a religious leader. However, there is no one for him to turn to for solace other than the young woman he saved. And of course, the monsters he connects to. Is not Abigail preferable?”

Beverly blinked. _Is he serious?_ “Will, in his work, isn’t _personally_ connected to the murderers he profiles.” _Right?_

Lecter turned, leaning forward slightly. His dark eyes, previously guarded and impenetrable, shone with a short, sharp piercing intensity. And then she blinked.

“Oh, but he is,” Lecter responded with clinical detachment, his face once again a mask of perfect polite hospitality. “One piece of Will becomes a piece of what he studies. That must be evident. What he does is _personalize_ them.”

_What a horrible thing to say—wait, and he passed Will on the psyche eval?!_ Beverly cast a quick glance in Jack’s direction, but he was blithely munching away, seemingly oblivious to the troubling implications of the words coming out of Dr. Lecter’s mouth. _No, that can’t be right. Will must go home. He has to be able to get away, set this all aside, if just for a few hours._

Beverly forced herself to respond calmly. “There is a world of difference between enduring stress on the job, and bringing stress home and cuddling up with it.”

“Is there?” Dr. Lecter calmly gazed at her over the rim of his wine glass.

“Yes,” Beverly said, gaining confidence. “It’s entirely possible that his connection with Abigail would be something healthy, would become something healthy, were he well. But I think we can all agree that Will’s going through a bit of a rough patch right now.” _Understatement._

“Precisely.” Dr. Lecter agreed. “He is experiencing a ‘rough patch’, seeking any refuge he might find. Miss Hobbs is all he has. Would you take that from him?”

_If necessary to save his sanity…yes._ Beverly thought, disliking how Lecter turned her words against her. _How do I even respond…_ But before she could continue Jack cut in. “Dr. Lecter’s right. If it becomes too much of a distraction, we’ll step in. But he needs a life outside of work.”

_Well,_ thought Beverly, sitting back in her chair, _there’s no helping it now. Once Jack has his mind set, all I can do is hope we can revaluate this at a later time._

Turning back to Dr. Lecter, Jack continued. “Alana said the field office would like to take Miss Hobbs to Lancaster in a few days. Graham is adamant he will accompany her.”

Dr. Lecter nodded. “I can check my schedule. I have meetings up in Harrisburg later this week. If the timing works, I might be able to meet up with them in the evening.”

Jack nodded. “That would be a life saver.”

 

**New Orleans, LA — Later That Night**

Another day, another hotel. _Or more accurately, a shitty last minute Air BnB._ Freddie glanced around the studio apartment. _Wow, this person is freakishly trusting._ They’d left most of their belongings out. Bookshelves full of books, a pretty sweet computer set up, a bunch of old records, the works.

Freddie thought about taking a bath, looked at the tub, and, well, so much for that. Instead, she curled up with a bottle of vodka and took a nap. Several hours later, she woke up, stomach growling. Rolling over, she looked at the small digital clock on the nightstand. _1 AM. Vampire time,_ she thought with a wry smile. _Just go back to bed, don’t go outside. Ugh, but I’m hungry, and there’s no room service._ She snorted. _Though fat lot of good that did last time._ Stretching, she rose. _This is absurd. I’m going to get something to eat. I think I saw a little bodega across the street. It won’t take more than 15 minutes, and will make the hangover tomorrow a lot more manageable._

_***_

Beverly slowly backed the SUV out of Dr. Lecter’s driveway. Sitting to her left, Jack looked pleased. “That went well,” he stated.

Beverly murmured in agreement. _Of course Jack enjoyed it. Dr. Lecter told him exactly what he wanted to hear._ “Do you plan on using him long term?” She asked.

Jack shrugged. “He’s only available in the evenings. During the day, he’s completely incommunicado. Some sort of work with the ‘ _United States Federal Government_ ’, which of course, he can’t discuss.”

The dark streets passed by as Beverly navigated out of the sleepy neighborhood and towards the main road and highway. “NSA?” she asked.

Jack scowled. “No doubt. Could you inquire? Discreetly.”

Beverly chuckled. “That isn’t a lot to go by.”

“Someone has to know something. Just start shaking trees. Who knows what might fall.”

Beverly shot Jack an incredulous look. “Isn’t Bowman better at this sort of thing?”

Jack grimaced, shaking his head. “It’ll be a _long_ time before No Such Agency forgets what Bowman did, or what I did to protect the boy.”

As they reached the brightly lit highway, she internally groaned. “I’ll see what I can do.” _Wonderful. Now I’m going to end up on their shit list too._  

_***_

_Goddammit,_ Freddie cursed as she re-entered the studio apartment. During her brief absence, someone had slipped into the room, _cleaned the room,_ and left on the freshly made bed a pair of manila folders with a little card propped up on top. They’d even picked up her dirty clothes and—Freddie checked her suitcase, _yep, neatly packed them away._

_Might as well get this over with._ Food momentarily forgotten, she sat down on the bed, and picked up the note.

The calligraphy was beautiful, the kind you only saw in old time movies and really expensive wedding invitations:

_My dearest Miss Lounds:_

_Enclosed is what you came for. I have taken the liberty of booking you a 6AM flight to Baltimore, where Msser. Crawford is currently operating. I suggest you be on it. If you remain in this city any longer, or if you write about anything here other than Mssers. Graham and Crawford, I am afraid I cannot guarantee your safety._

_I sincerely hope that we never meet, and for your own sake, that you do not return to New Orleans._

The letter was unsigned.

Freddie flipped through the first folder. A full FBI psychiatric evaluation on Will Graham, dated ten years ago. The second one contained Jack Crawford’s military service record. _Well, this is unexpected._

She glanced at the clock. _Fuck, it’s already 2AM. No point in going to bed. As much as I drank, I’ll never wake up in time for the flight._ Glancing around, she walked over to grab her suitcase. _At least I don’t have to pack. Thank God for Edward Cullen’s housekeeping service._ She groaned. _Flying with a hangover was NOT on my vacation to do list._

 

**Hannibal Lecter’s Home — Later that Evening**

“And what would you care to drink?” Hannibal looked back into the parlor where Bedelia Du Maurier sat perched on the armrest of one of the green velvet chairs.

She gave a dismissive wave. “I’ll pass. But, don’t let me stop you.”

He strolled down the hallway to the kitchen, and removed a wine bottle chilling in the fridge. Pouring himself a glass of preserved blood, he returned the bottle.

Returning to the living room, he casually leaned against the door frame, watching her intently. She cut a lovely image, her perfectly curled blonde hair, her exquisitely tailored suit, her composed and icy expression…

Swirling his glass, he savored the rich flavor. “Notes of tobacco and…smoke? I can’t interest you?” He smiled mischievously.

She gave him a look of disapproval. “Although I have occasionally imagined Crawford walking these halls, it never occurred to me that he would enter as an _invited_ guest.”

Still amused, Hannibal took a seat across from her, and crossed his legs. “Yes, and it appears I will soon have appointments in Harrisburg.”

“ _Appointments_. Of course.” She responded, stone faced. Rising, she casually walked over to a bookshelf off to the side of the room. “Graham’s arrival has certainly _complicated_ your schedule.”

“He really is quite the find.” Hannibal gave a narrow smile, before contently saying, “One day, I shall thank Crawford properly.”

She turned away from inspecting several small trinkets. “You sound alarmingly unperturbed. Graham does after all, show all the signs of one touched by fate.”

“The chance to observe one so closely is a rare blessing.” Indeed, it provided Hannibal with an exhilaration he hadn’t felt in _years._ It was as if he was breathing air for the first time in over a century.

Walking back to her chair, she looked at him directly, “Hannibal, we both know you will never be content to merely play the role of Achates, Aneas’ silent and obedient companion, all but forgotten in the annals of history.”

“Of course not,” Hannibal replied. “I will do my part to help him, cultivate him. Help him reach his full and true potential.” It felt _good,_ as if he was alive again. It was a strange and alien experience, although he was sure it was all more alien to Bedelia. She was after all, his senior.

“So, you wish to play the role of Megera? Doomed by fate to die at her lover’s hand, thereby launching his epic journey.”

Hannibal scoffed. _Hercules’ wife?_ The idea was absurd. “No God of old guides Will’s hand. Such creatures no longer walk this earth. He merely has a talent upon which his subconscious speaks.”

She walked behind him, and placed a hand on the back of his chair in a proprietary fashion. “Such creatures are not unknown to us. Indeed, there are several in your rolodex who suffer from this affliction, and I do say affliction. Their gift brings no joy to them, nor those around them.”

A small sad smile crossed his face. “Then I shall see Will does not suffer the same fate.”

 

**FTRB HQ — Science Building**

_Another bar fight._ Beverly thought, staring at the grainy security camera footage. She sat in the Science Team’s second floor workroom, at a computer directly underneath a sign that read: ‘Internal Network Use Only.’ Directly across the room was a similar cluster of computers, these labeled: ‘Warning: Computer Connected to Internet.’ Sliding whiteboards and corkboards were mounted on the room’s front and back walls, and work desks dotted the center of the room. Although they each had their own office, sometimes it was just easier to work in a shared space.

At the computer to her right, Bowman plugged away, alternately reviewing footage of his own, and futilely attempting to run down McCusker’s missing electronics.

He seemed confident he would find something, but Beverly knew better than to expect results. _Lloyd’s never going to admit defeat,_ she thought. With absolutely no leads on Garret Jacob Hobbs’ mysterious killer, they were back to the old standby, watching footage from local bars, looking for any ‘suspicious activity’.

She heard the sound of footsteps and someone opening the door. Pausing the footage and looking up she saw Will, holding a thermos and looking like he needed a nap. “Hey kid,” she called over. “Late night?”

Will mumbled something noncommittal and walked over to join them. Swiveling around to see him up close almost made her want to take away his coffee and escort him home, and tuck him in bed. His eyes were red, and unfocused, staring at something behind her head. He somehow looked even worse than he had when she first picked him up in that New Orleans’ hospital. “What brings you to our corner of the world?” She quipped.

“Oh. Good. You found him.”

“What?” She said, realizing he was staring at the monitor behind her.

“Hobbs’ killer. He’s right there.” He pointed to the grainy image of a squat man in a trucker’s hat and broad shouldered leather jacket engaged in a heated argument with another patron at the bar.

_What?_ Beverly cocked her head, caught off guard by the total non-sequitur. Processing his comment, she said, “Are, are you sure, Did you get a good look at him?”

Will let out a hollow chuckle. “I see that face, eyes wide in terror, every time I close my eyes. I guess I should go get some range time. I don’t want him to get away again.” He mumbled before taking a sip of coffee and wandering out of the room.

Beverly and Bowman exchanged glances that said, ‘ _Yeah, you heard that right? I wasn’t just imaging that?’_ Finally she picked up the phone and dialed. “Jack, you should get over here. Graham found Hobbs killer. I’ll get Bowman to pull the traffic cams. With luck we can track him home.”

Hanging up, Beverly shook her head. She wasn’t sure how Graham did it, but he seemed to have a positive _knack_ for turning things on their head, even when he did look absolutely fried.

She turned back to her monitor to re-set the footage. Jack would want to see for himself when he arrived. She couldn’t shake the feeling, that she had missed something. It hit her. _Right, Graham._ She picked up the phone again, dialing rapidly.

“Casey, it’s Beverly. I wanted to give you the heads up—Will’s going to be walking through your door any minute now, and…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! A bit later today than usual, just got off a plane. Short chapter this week. We'll be posting next week as well.
> 
> We're going into the home stretch! Thank you for reading! As always, I love your comments!


	26. Chapter Twenty Four

_Will Graham’s Road Trip Playlist:_

_Electric Light Orchestra— Eldorado, All Over the World, The Very Best of ELO_  
_Kansas — Point of Known Return, Leftoverture_  
_Steely Dan— A Decade of Steely Dan_  
_Red 7 — Red 7_  
_Joni Mitchell —Court and Spark_  
_The Doors — Waiting for the Sun_  
_Stan Rogers — From Fresh Water, Fogarty’s Cove_

**I-83 North — Noon**

_‘Graham and Hobbs are meeting the FBI in Lancaster. Dr. Lecter will meet you tonight. Leave early, so you’ll have plenty of time once you get there. Just make sure they don’t get hurt. Oh, and keep Graham out of trouble.’ Sounded easy enough talking to Spurgen,_ Mark Sutton thought as he drove the black SUV on I-83 North. _A road trip, a nice way to keep Graham out from underfoot during the op today, help the girl get her stuff…no one mentioned playing babysitter._ Since leaving the compound, the three of them—Mark, Graham, and Abigail—had sat in pained silence, occasionally punctuated by Graham’s meager attempts at conversation. Fortunately, (or perhaps unfortunately, depending on one’s view of late 70’s music), Graham had brought with him an honest to God binder of compact discs.

“So, Abigail…what music do you like?” Graham asked eagerly.

“Whatever.”

“I brought some CD’s…”

“Whatever.” Abigail flatly responded, clearly wanting to be left alone. “Whatever you want.”

“No, here, I’ll let you see them. You pick.” Graham tried to hand her the binder.

“It’s fine, whatever you want.” She pointedly did not take them.

“It’s fine, you can—“

Mark cut in. “Ok.” He started flipping through radio stations. “We’re choosing between shitty country, or shitty pop.”

Silence.

“Shitty pop it is.”

_Dear Future Husband_ came on the radio. Both Graham and Abigail sighed in distaste. _Anything is preferable to the conversation._ Sutton grimaced.

Unfortunately, Graham started talking again. “Have you heard of Electric Light Orchestra? No? You might like it…”

“Uh huh…” Abigail sounded. Mark glanced up at the rearview mirror. She sat, staring blankly out the window, nearly hidden behind her long dark hair. _Poor kid,_ he thought. _She just wants some peace. Graham means well, but…_ he shook his head, forcing himself to think about something other than Graham and his weirdness, as the man continued rattling off bands last popular before the Reagan Administration.

_When is he going to figure it out?_ Mark thought sadly. _She needs some space, some room to breathe. She’s not going to reciprocate with you squashing her with affection. Even if she cares…it’s not like he cared about me._ Mark shook his head again. It had been six years, but it still felt like yesterday. How many times had Dr. McCusker reminded him? He knew intellectually, that it wasn’t his fault. That it had been the brainwashing, the gas lighting, that he’d been subjected to God only knows what other kind of weird vampire shit. But a part of him didn’t believe it. After all, a few words did not absolve one from their past actions.

“Kansas? Surely you’ve heard of them?”

_Seriously? He’s still talking about music?_ Exasperated, Mark tried to start a conversation. “So, anyone want to stop? There’s a rest stop coming up.”

“ _Carry On My Wayward Son_. You have to have heard it.”

To everyone’s surprise Abigail responded. “Isn’t that from that show with the two brothers and their red car?”

_Well, at least she answered. Not the response Graham wanted, given his expression…_ Before the awkwardness continued, Mark said, “Rest stop? They might have a book store?”

“I’m fine.” Will replied.

_Silence._

“So, Abigail, have any hobbies?” It was a long shot. It had taken him months to open up…well years…after they found him.

_Silence._

“So…Graham…do _you_ have any hobbies?” _Anything to get him talking about something other than music…_

“Fishing. Do you know where that stream was?”

“What stream?” _No really, what is he talking about?_

“Where we found Cassie Boyle. It looked like a good place to fish. Abigail do you fish?”

_…And no. Time for a subject change._ “Ok everyone.” Mark declared. “We’re pulling into the rest stop. Get up, get out, get some water. Be back in 10.

***

With Graham and the girl finally out of the car, Mark dialed Beverly. He needed advice _now,_ on how to deal with the two in his car. No answer. He dialed Suzie. No answer. He dialed Tom, and the phone finally picked up.

“Hey Tom, why can’t I reach Beverly or Suzie?”

“No time…ops going on…don’t have long…running into the side of a house!” The call ended.

Mark shook his head. _Tom gets weirder every year._ He glanced at the clock. _8 more minutes before they get back._ Rummaging in his bag, Mark pulled out his dog-eared copy _Grave Peril. Might as well read a bit before they get back._

***

Back in the car, Mark tried to prod the conversation back to fishing. _At least it kept Graham distracted._ Mark noted, seeing Abigail was trying and failing to take a nap.

“I used to work in a boatyard with my father out in Biloxi and Greenville. Later around New Orleans.”

“Boats?” Mark inquired. “I’ve fixed cars, never boats.”

“Oh, I’ve done cars also, but I find boat motors far more interesting…” _I guess its better than him trying to talk to the girl…_ Sutton thought as Will excitedly continued. _But not by much…_

**Baltimore — 554 Miller Street — Noon**

“Is that _normal?!”_ Brian Zeller exclaimed, as the house came into view. Glancing around the SUV, he took some small pleasure in seeing Beverly, Jimmy, and Lloyd were just as surprised as him. “Did Tom have a seizure? Or did they do that on purpose?!”

What was once the very model of quaint, suburban normalcy, complete with white picket fence, light blue siding, and stout red brick chimney, now looked like something out of a Michael Bay movie. The fence lay in ruins, the chimney lay scattered across the lawn, and gaping holes had been blasted through the siding. As they pulled closer, Brian could see a good portion of the grounds team in protective suits and breathing masks, trying to winch one of the Tac Team vans out of the front of the house.

_I guess that’s one way to avoid the doors and windows._ Over the years, the FTRB had developed a healthy respect for their adversaries’ utter disregard for proportionality or collateral damage when establishing home defenses. Indeed, the most surprising thing about the York cemetery had not been the presence of explosive residue, but rather the absence of any actual explosives. As such, for as long as Brian had worked at the FTRB, all their operations emphasized careful, non-invasive entries, rather than the sort of spectacular blitzkriegs favored by small town SWAT teams.

Lloyd interrupted Brian’s musings. “ _But..Why?!_ Why a truck?!”

“Why not?” Jimmy said from the backseat. “It’s not like Tom’s getting any younger. Knock one more thing off the old bucket list.”

“I understand they need Lloyd here to find all the techy stuff…but why are we here?” Brian asked.

Beverly shook her head. “We’re stripping the house. Every document, hard drive, all of it. We’ve only got a few hours to do it, so we need every free set of hands. Oh, and before, we’ll all need to suit up with gloves and breathing gear. Don’t forget the biohazard boxes in the trunk.”

“WHAT!” Brian exclaimed. The last time they did a ‘biohazard’ case, he couldn’t touch solid food for a week. Just thinking back made him queasy.

Beverly tossed her head back and laughed. “Relax, there’s not actually anything dangerous in there. We just need to put on a good show for the local cops and reporters.”

_Just what I need. More reporters. God, I hope she isn’t here._

**Lancaster, PA — Hobbs House — Afternoon**

They pulled up the gravel driveway, the afternoon sun glinting off an assortment of cars from the local Sheriff’s office as well as the FBI. It was a small red brick house, the once trimmed lawn and hedges growing into disrepair.

As Mark stepped out of the car, a particularly grim man in a cheap black suit came out of the house, striding quickly toward them. “Rutherford Clayburn, FBI.” He flashed a badge. “Graham, Hobbs, and you’d be Agent Mark Sutton?”

Mark nodded.

“Good, you’re on the list.” Clayburn replied, hurrying them towards the house. “Let’s go—we have a lot to cover, and it won’t be long before someone leaks your visit to the press.”

Mark frowned. “I’ll probably take most of the afternoon to pack.”

“Honestly,” Clayburn looked dismissively at Abigail, with her blue scarf wrapped defensively around her neck. He leaned in towards Mark, “That’s not my priority. Our priority is to take a tour around the house, and see if it jogs any memories.”

Mark suppressed a glare. _Jesus Christ, lay off, will you? She’s nineteen for Christsakes! Nothing you do right now is going to help anyone alive._

_***_

With lead feet, Abigail slowly started trudging towards her home. She knew all eyes were on her. As she passed, cops would lower their voices to whispers. _They all know._ A tiny voice in the back of her head warned. _They all know. Why do you keep pretending? Because I have no other choice!_ She told herself.

_You should just come clean. Then it would all be over. No!_ She reiterated. _The psychiatric hospital is temporary. If I confess they’ll lock me up in one permanently!_ Taking a deep breath of country air, she reminded herself of the little freedoms she was fighting for.

“We’re going to ask you to lead us around the house,” an authoritative voice said, startling her. Turning, she saw that FBI Agent, Clayburn had snuck up behind her. “Give us a tour. Anything that can help us find those girls.”

Thankfully, Agent Sutton cut in. “Now if you start feeling uncomfortable, let us know, we can leave and comeback later.” He was young, no more than 30, very fit, with neat blonde hair and a brown leather jacket partially covering his FBI vest. He had a very wholesome, clean-cut all-American look going, very Captain America.

Seeing Clayburn give Agent Sutton a pointed look, she thought, _They have something in mind. What do I show them? What if I show them too much? If I don’t show them…would they notice?_ Breathing slowly to try and hide her ever increasing heart rate, she tried to tackle the endless dilemma. _What if they know where the knife is? What if they have the knife? Oh God. They’re going to spring it on me, see how I react…_

With little choice but to move forward, she stepped over the threshold and into the house.

**Baltimore — Clive Johnson’s House**

Jack stood outside the house, sweating profusely in the heavy biohazard gear. He watched a pair of bickering Science Team members, Price and Zeller from the sound of it, load yet another set of boxes into the vans. Waiting for them to pass, Jack leaned into the nearest van, briefly glancing at the blinking clock on the dash. _Not much time left._

“65 minutes.” He stated, as Kurt Spurgen approached.

“Should be enough,” Kurt replied. “I’m more worried about the van. ’t’d be a shame to leave it.”

Jack nodded, turning to watch the Grounds Crew members, still working to winch the van out of the wall of the house. _But if they don’t get it out soon, we’ll do exactly that, and damn the expense._ The previous night had been a scurry and shuffle as soon as Graham had identified Garret Jacob Hobbs’ killer. Bowman had crosschecked the footage with their list of known troublemakers, and they’d gotten a lucky break. _Clive Johnson._

Unfortunately, while their search had turned up dozens of boxes of materials, it hadn’t turned up Johnson! Either he was wasn’t home, he’d somehow managed to escape, or he had a hidey-hole that they still hadn’t found, despite a _very_ thorough search. _What I really want to do is just take the whole house off the foundation and dig, but there’s just no time!_

“The neighbors evacuated?” Jack asked.

“Yup.” Kurt grinned. “Funny how people get the hell out when they see guys in moon suits traipsing in and out of the house next door.”

Jack scanned the quiet neighborhood. Small two story homes with neat little lawns and white picket fences lined the street. Down the road, at the intersection, sat a coffee shop, and a small cafe. “Here of all places?”

“You saying they shouldn’t be in neighborhoods like this?” Spurgen laughed. “Never saw you as an idealist.”

_Neither did I._ Jack thought. It was things like this, the monsters hiding in plain sight that drove Jack forward, the knowledge that behind any picket fence, behind any screen door, they were lurking, blending in among the unsuspecting populace.

The radio buzzed again. “Cameras up, inside, outside, and on the street.”

Jack exchanged glances with Kurt, before asking, “What did we get?”

“Most recently?” Kurt replied, “A bunch of creepy notes and photos on that reporter who’s been giving us trouble, that Lounds woman. Seems Johnson didn’t appreciate her coverage either.”

Jack smirked.

“Beyond that? Jesus, it’s a gold mine. A couple computers, an iPhone, forget about encryption—they don’t even have passwords. Hardcopy address book, photo albums running back decades, a huge stack of receipts, decades of financial information. _Diaries._ Guy’s a pack rat. He has a fucking _scrapbook._ We even found a couple of those paintings Hobbs made. And that’s just what they found lying around!”

“And we’re just getting started.” Jack grinned, a hungry grin. _Look at what quick action has allowed us to achieve,_ Jack thought. Had they taken their time, they might have missed more than just Clive Johnson.

He knew this information changed everything. For years they’d scrambled together whatever scattered scraps of they could, barely able to keep a lid on the worst incidents and apprehend the worst troublemakers. Now, for the first time, they had a chance to achieve the dream they all shared—and force the monsters to realize that even they were not above the law.

Kurt looked at Jack. “Eh? I’d think this is a pretty good haul. Better than anything we’ve gotten in two, no three years, if not ever.”

Jack cracked a wolfish grin. “What do you think is going to happen when they realize what we have? When they all start trying to cover their tracks, all at the same time, at cross-purposes? This is just a teaser. Tonight, we’ve got a front row seat.”

**Lancaster, PA — Hobbs House**

Abigail was exhausted. Interacting with normal people was bad enough. Having to keep up a facade _for hours under_ FBI questioning was completely draining. Clayburn and Alderson poked and prodded, asking random questions about all sorts of things. _Did you hunt with your father? How often? Did you help him with his taxidermy projects? Where did he spend most of his time?_ The questions seemed endless. Finally, she received a brief respite, as the two gruff agents stepped into another room to compare notes.

Filled with a mixture of relief and exhaustion, Abigail seized the chance to run upstairs to her bedroom.

The room was small, with pastel pink walls, and light blue curtains, framing a pair of white trimmed windows. A white, wooden bed with a bright floral bedspread, stood against one wall, opposite a white desk and dresser. Seeing the room again, she had to admit the décor looked rather _young. But Dad picked it all out years ago, when mom was still alive. And after she passed away, I didn’t dare say anything._

A soft voice came from behind. _Sutton._ “Where shall we begin?”

_Right. Packing. That’s what we came here to do._ “Clothing, I’ll start with the dresser…” She said flatly, on autopilot. Honestly, she didn’t expect to actually get to pack her belongings. She didn’t think she’d make it through the evening without getting dragged out in handcuffs. _Well, don’t get your hopes up,_ she reminded herself. _You’re not back in Baltimore yet…_

She walked over to the dresser. Pulling a pink cosmetic bag out of a drawer, she started shoveling loose products and hair ties into the pouch. She didn’t really have much makeup, her father never really approved, but she had the occasional lipstick from prom, or scented lip glosses. Now that she thought about it, her make-up, like the room, was very young _. Christ, my makeup bag even has a little metal teddy bear on the zipper._

“College applications?” Sutton commented, noticing a folder on the bedside table. He picked it up, clearly about to add it to the pile to take back.

She laughed bitterly. “My dad killed girls at all the colleges I was applying to. So… _no_.” Supposedly, that was where all of Johnson’s money was going, into her college fund. _Not like I was ever going to use it._ She was already taking a gap year after graduating high school. He never said anything, but he hadn’t had to. She knew that the day she tried to leave would be his last day as well as hers. In a weird way, she was surprised she had actually survived him.

Sutton put the folder in the pile anyway.

She finished packing her cosmetics, and started winding up the cord of a curling iron. Scanning her desk and noticing it missing, she asked, “Where’s my laptop?”

“They took it into evidence.” Will said sadly.

“What?!” She exclaimed, and not about the laptop. _Jesus, I didn’t even hear him come in._ “It has everything! All my music, movies, writing…” She sighed, trying to pull herself together. “I’m not going to see it again, am I?”

Will shook his head. “Probably not.”

Collapsing on the side of her bed she exhaled. “Fresh start? _Right…”_ She knew she shouldn’t be surprised, and it was just a laptop, but its loss really felt like losing the last connection with her old life.

“Graham, why don’t you get the boxes out of the trunk of the car?”

_It’s just a laptop,_ she reminded herself, watching Will leave the room. _At least they missed your iPod,_ she thought, finding it under her pillow where she’d left it.

“How ‘ya holding up?” Sutton asked, taking a seat next to her.

“Fine.” She nodded blandly, folding up a light blue sweater and putting it in the stack. She should thank Alana again, for getting her some new clothes. But, the new clothes weren’t _her_ clothes, not really. _But, they are the first clothes not picked out under the shadow of dad and the need for his approval._ Thinking about it, it felt oddly liberating knowing that going forward, she could wear what ever she wanted to wear.

“Abigail, I know he’s smothering you. If you get tired of him, if it gets to be too much, just say you want to sit by yourself, or you’re exhausted. I’ll keep him busy.”

She looked up at Sutton, surprise quickly changing to skepticism. “Really? Thank you, Agent Sutton. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, it’s not a problem. I get it. And call me Mark.”

“Mark it is then,” she said with a small smile.

**Baltimore — Near the Johnson House**

Freddie Lounds grimaced as stirred her coffee and glared at her laptop. Beating the rest of the media here, and an extra twenty placed in the tip jar, she had a prime window seat and immunity from the shop’s no loitering rule.

_Barely awake this morning, when Tom Waymack calls with this scoop. Worth every cent I paid him too. An honest to God Al-Qaeda bioterrorism bomb factory! Right in our own backyard!_ Thank to Waymack’s timely tip, she had a full five paragraphs up, _with photos_ , before the Baltimore Sun even showed up.

Now the sun was dipping below the horizon, but Freddie wasn’t worried. After all, it had all happened in broad daylight. _No vampires at all!_

One of her burner phones rang. She answered. From the other side, a voice said, “Hey! I’m outside the Hobbs house! It’s a fucking shit show! Mob is really getting riled up! Oh! Someone’s got a carton of eggs!”

_Talk about being unpopular,_ Freddie thought, _when the local PD leaks your sorry ass to the press._ “Just take pictures.” She instructed.

“They gave her bodyguards too. Though they clearly aren’t taking it very seriously. One of them is this small, scruffy looking guy. Brown hair, blood-shot eyes. Looks more like a junkie than a cop.”

_Graham?_ Freddie’s interest was momentarily piqued before sighing. _Right. I can’t actually publish anything about him._

“Hopefully one of the eggs hits…we’ll see!” The phone hung up. _Stringers. Hopefully he gets some good shots. I might not be able to use them, but at least I can save them for my personal collection. One day Crawford will fall, and then, oh the things I will write._

She looked back out the window. It was starting to rain. Through the mist she could just see the house, surrounded by caution tape in the curve of the road. They’d evacuated all the nearby homes, and police officers were nervously stationed a bit down the road on either side. _Right, ‘Bioterrorism’._ Freddie thought, starting to type on a laptop next to her Miles notes. _Obviously it’s a false flag of some sort, US Government behind it. Let’s see, what should we be covering up today? Aliens maybe? Aliens are good. Or maybe it all comes back to the fiendish fluorinators. Think, Freddie, if you can’t find some good crack-pot conspiracy theory in this, the vampires deserve to get you._ She sighed, she’d always thought Tattlecrime had a bit more self-respect, sticking to the true crime genre, but perhaps it was time to rebrand, go for the Alex Jones _Infowars and Anti-Vax_ demographic…

_I just need a better view of the action,_ she thought, straining to snap a picture. _A few more close ups of shady government vans, etc._ An idea crossed her mind. _Now that the evacuations’s done, maybe I should check out some of those houses…_

**Lancaster, PA**

_Crawford is proving far more aggressive than anticipated,_ Hannibal mused, as he drove toward the Hobbs house. News of the raid had come as a pleasant surprise. He was, of course, accustomed to Crawford’s occasional militaristic adventures. However, the Johnson raid was something entirely new, unprecedented and admirable. _Such ferocity! Such audacity! And not the slightest hint of warning! I wonder, did Crawford truly conceive of, plan, and execute the raid all in the span of twelve hours?_

Hannibal felt so _alive._ He could feel a beautiful dynamic tension filling the very air around him, as if all of creation balanced on the edge of a knife. _This_ was why he was felt drawn to Will, Crawford, and their like, not Casselden-Haywood and his. For all of Governor-General’s wealth and power, he had but a fraction of the dynamism, the _vitality_ his adversaries possessed in such abundance. And Hannibal had a front row seat to watch the show.

_I wonder, if we are not seeing Will’s influence at work._ At the very thought, Hannibal felt a surge of pride.

Tellingly, that evening no one had heard from Mr. Johnson, and it was very likely no one would ever hear from him again. Even if he escaped Crawford’s clutches, he would no doubt play dead. His fellows were unlikely to forgive a lapse of this magnitude.

Hannibal’s thoughts were rudely interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He glanced down at the screen, and sighed. _Jeremy Beamish._ _Speaking of loose ends…_ He answered the phone. “Hello?”

From the car speaker system, Jeremy shouted. “Hannibal! Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you since sundown!”

“Calmly Jeremy, calmly. Is something the matter?”

“God, they raided his house. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to have Crawford raid the house?”

Hannibal was, once again, quite thankful that Mr. Johnson did not know of his involvement in this ill-conceived venture, all transactions having run through Jeremy. “I knew Mr. Johnson was on Crawford’s radar; something must have accelerated the timetable.” _It would be unfortunate if Johnson ended up in Crawford’s captivity. I would be forced to move against Beamish, and quickly._

“But why didn’t you tell me this was coming!” Jeremy exclaimed.

“Crawford moved without consulting me, or anyone else.” Hannibal explained in a reasonable tone. _At least—unlike dear Jeremy, I am not in any immediate danger of discovery._

Changing the subject, Hannibal asked, “What is the situation in Baltimore?”

“Bad! They’re all in an uproar over the raid, and there’s even talk of a direct challenge on Councilor Rike!”

“I see.” Hannibal replied. _Rike was a fool to shelter Johnson for so long, a mistake that just might prove his undoing. And good riddance too._ Hannibal had nurtured a dislike for Rike ever since the man had with much _public_ ado, given Hannibal a grotesque, rhinestone-encrusted, faux-gold, cat paperweight. “I have every confidence in Casselden-Haywood’s ability to maintain control of the situation.”

“But what do _I_ do?”

_There is nothing you can do that will not do more harm than good._ Hannibal thought dispassionately. _Tonight will feature chaos on a scale not seen since La Fontaine’s flight from the city a decade past._

Instead Hannibal replied, “Jeremy, I’m sure a bright, young lad like you can easily improve your situation in all this chaos; simply avoid drawing Crawford’s attention.”

“By doing what?”

“Doing _nothing_.”

A lengthy pause followed, as Jeremy processed the, for him, difficult concept. Finally, he said, “What are you doing?”

“I am personally overseeing Crawford’s investigative team in Lancaster, to ensure they do not stumble upon anything _inconvenient.”_

Jeremy burst into exclamations of thanks. _I suppose it is nice to be appreciated,_ Hannibal thought sarcastically. _Even by one such as him._

**Baltimore, MA — The House Opposite Clive Johnson’s**

Peering over a fence, Freddie appraised the quaint, two-story yellow house sitting next door to the home that had received so much _loving_ government attention over the course of that day. She was pleased to see that the yellow house had on its second story a corner room with a window overlooking both the street and the site of the day’s festivities.

Cautiously, she slipped over the fence, and dropped into a backyard. She landed with a wet thud on the grass.

Standing up, she dusted herself off, and hurried to the backdoor. It was locked. Peaking through the glass window, she could make out the kitchen inside. Undeterred, she quickly scanned her surroundings. _Now where do people keep their keys…Nothing under the doormat, but what’s that?_ As she stood up, she noticed a very fake looking rock to the side of the house. _Yup, that’s it._ Picking it up, she opened it, removing the key. _Seriously, under the doormat would be more secure. Why do people even bother?_ Quickly, she opened the door, and slipped inside, pocketing the key. Shutting the door softly behind her, she locked and bolted it. _After all, I wouldn’t want anyone else trying this,_ she grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Welcome back! Hope you enjoyed the longish chapter. I highly recommend all of the music on Will Graham's playlist. :D 
> 
> We'll be taking next week off. We've only got a few more chapters left for this book. (Yeah, what was originally going to be one book, has expanded. Do people want this to be more of a series? 
> 
> Also, I'm not sure if I should start a new posting for book 2, maybe we'll get new readers that way, or just continue on in this posting, but make it clear in the description that you don't have to have read book 1. I'm thinking this book ended up more like a prequel? Don't worry, Will's going to figure it all out soon enough. 
> 
> Thank you all very much for your patience, this is our first attempt at writing.


	27. Chapter Twenty Five

_“…Earlier this afternoon, Federal agents raided a home in suburban Baltimore. While authorities have refused to officially comment, witnesses have reported seeing technicians wearing hazmat suits remove several dozen sealed boxes emblazoned with biohazard warnings. Off the record comments indicate it was the location of an Al-Qaeda bomb factory…” — Excerpt from the Action Three Evening News_

**Lancaster, PA — Hobbs House**

Will sat alone in the living room, idly flipping through a copy of _Outdoor Life: Deer Hunting, Fishing, and Gun Reviews_ he'd found under the couch. Even he could tell when he wasn't wanted, so he'd wandered downstairs, leaving Abigail and Sutton upstairs, packing. He was happy for them, for her, that she and Sutton got along. He could only hope that, in time, she would come to be so relaxed around him.

The living room was open, airy, and rustic, dominated by a stone fireplace on one wall, and overlooked by a second floor balcony on another. Cozy leather chairs dotted the room in two clusters, one around the fireplace, and another by the windows, creating a nice conversational nook. Stuffed and mounted trophies hung on the walls, with a magnificent stag’s head holding a place of honor above the fireplace. Just below, mounted on pegs, hung a double-barreled shotgun. Will felt oddly at home.

The fire sprang to life. He leaned back, basking in its heat, exhausted from a long day's work, as snow drifted slowly past the frost-tinged windows. Hearing footsteps, he looked up to see Abigail, approaching with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. She smiled, her bright blue eyes dancing in the flickering firelight, and handed him his mug— _World’s Best Dad_.

“Good evening, Will.”

Will looked up with a start. He was not sure how much time had passed. The fire sat before him, cold and empty, and the mingled sounds of crickets and police cars drifted across the warm spring air.

"Will?"

Half-turning, he was surprised to see Dr. Lecter, standing where Abigail had stood, only moments before.

“Hello Dr. Lecter,” Will stammered. “I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

“Is everything all right?" Dr. Lecter looked concerned.

"It's fine." Will shook his head, and blinking. "It's fine."

After a moment's pause, Dr. Lecter inclined his head in curiosity. ”Where is Abigail?”

“She’s in her room. Packing. With Agent Sutton.” Fully awake, Will was surprised to see Dr. Lecter was not wearing his customary plaid suit. Instead, the man wore a red zip-up sweater and a dark brown and red plaid jacket, reminiscent of traditional English hunting attire. While Will appreciated the effort, he preferred far more practical and modern clothing.

“I see. And you’re out here?” Dr. Lecter observed carefully.

“Yeah.” Will stated.

“I’m surprised I did not see Miss Lounds outside in the crowd,” Dr. Lecter responded, crossing the room to settle into a comfortable leather chair facing Will. “I would have expected her to be here by now. Unless, perhaps, she has been diverted by the incident at the residence the elusive Mr. Johnson?”

Will looked up sharply. “Sorry?”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Were you not told? Agent Crawford led a raid on Mr. Johnson’s home earlier today. I am to understand that it was quite the spectacle.”

“I…was not.” Will replied, distantly. His mind raced. _God damn Jack, putting Abigail through all this, just to shuffle me out of the way._ The folly, the recklessness, appalled him. As good as Jack and his team may be, Will knew, and he knew Jack knew, that they were better with him than without him. _That much should be painfully clear from Dickenson, from Abigail’s father. How can I protect Abigail from Johnson if they insist on cutting me out? Jack isn’t subtle. If they haven’t already caught him, Johnson will have escaped, and alerted any co-conspirators._

“Is something the matter?” Will looked up to see Dr. Lecter, concern evident in his rough features.

“It’s fine,” Will replied, more quickly than he had intended. Seeing, however, that Dr. Lecter remained unconvinced, Will sighed, and continued. “It seems Jack did not care to wait. I guess I’ll just have to look forward to hearing all about it when I get back,” he concluded with a small, wry smile.

“No doubt,” Dr. Lecter replied, with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “We can all read about it later this evening, courtesy of Miss Lounds.”

Will snorted in disgust. “I’m sure. And I’m sure it will all still, _somehow_ , be Abigail’s fault.”

Dr. Lecter looked vaguely amused. “Perhaps. The media does seem awash in speculation about Miss Hobbs.”

Will frowned. _Not him too._ Clayburn and Alderson were bad enough. “It’s a load of garbage, and you know it.”

“Why do you say that?” The man seemed genuinely curious. “Does not a part of you wonder at her involvement? At what she knows?”

“You didn’t see her face when her father grabbed her.” He didn’t even have to close his eyes to see it, the overwhelming flash of shock, of terror, of horrible realization, wreathed in waves of soft brown hair. Will closed his eyes and looked away. “It wasn’t the face of someone who knew the inevitable.”

Dr. Lecter leaned back. “I defer to your opinion. Not that the jackals outside will care.”

“Don’t get me started.” Will glowered. He had nothing but contempt for the media. _The churn. Get the story and spit it out. Never caring about the people whose lives they destroy._

“Dr. Lecter!” Will turned to hear Abigail exclaim in surprise. She and Sutton had reentered the room, Sutton carrying a large cardboard box.

“Abigail, I hope the trip has not been too difficult for you.” Dr. Lecter kindly spoke. Eyeing the large box, he added. “Oh, are you packing? Let me help.”

***

_They didn’t tell me Dr. Lecter would be here!_ Abigail thought in dismay as they walked upstairs to her bedroom. It was bad enough when it was just Will. She dreaded seeing his disappointment and shattered illusions when the FBI found her knife and slapped on the handcuffs. But now there was Dr. Lecter too! In a weird way, she felt even worse knowing she was letting Dr. Lecter down. Dr. Lecter treated her like an actual person, not like Will, who put her on some strange pedestal she did not deserve. In fact, she felt almost normal when she spent time with him.

_At least Alana didn’t come. I don’t know what would be worse, the patronizing tone, or the smug look of satisfaction when I’m taken away._

And then there was Mark. He was not what she had in mind as a ‘typical’ FBI agent. _He actually seems like a human being, actually understands. Not like those two suits, Clayburn and Alderson._

As she stepped inside her room, Abigail gave a small smile. Dr. Lecter did look like he stepped out of that Downton Abbey hunting episode. _I suppose I should just take humor where I find it…_

**Baltimore — Near Johnson’s House**

From her concealed, second-floor vantage point, Freddie observed the street before her with deep skepticism and confusion. With the departure of the last van of boxes and the fall of night, things had started quieting down. Hell, she’d even thought about leaving. But then, not long after sundown, a baffling parade of Johnny-come-latelies started trickling in.

It didn’t take much to realize these newcomers weren’t reporters. No, the final few ‘respectable’ reporters traipsed off shortly after the last of the police vans, no doubt saddened by the lack of pyrotechnics. As for the tabloids and freelancers, well, she _knew_ all of them, at least locally. But the ones down there? Not only did she not know _any_ of them, they were, well, _amateurs._ She had some respect for the guys just straight up sitting in cars with zoom lenses and energy drinks. _I mean yeah, it’s painfully obvious, but less painful than trying and failing to be inconspicuous. I mean buskers? A sketch artist? There are few enough of those downtown, let alone at night on a suburban street half-blocked with police tape._ The ‘businessman’ in the cafe window had at least slightly more deniability, or rather he would had he not been so _painfully_ obviously slipping a Benjamin to the barista. _Stupid fucker, now she’s going to expect the same from all of us. It’s not like I’m made of money!_

As a _professional_ snoop, it was simply _embarrassing._

However, that didn’t get her any closer to knowing who was behind it all. From the poor trade craft and general incompetence, she would have ordinarily assumed it to be a law enforcement stakeout. _But what could they possibly gain? They already raided the house! Do they really think someone is just going to waltz up to the front door and say hello?_

She watched as one of the buskers lit up a joint. _Last time I checked, the FBI didn’t approve of that…and neither did Al-Qaeda…_

_Calm down Freddie. Who cares who it is? The readers won’t. Just get some long distance fuzzy shots with the house recognizable in the background. Between you and Captain Morgan, you’ll think of something. Perhaps: ‘ATF VS. FBI: FALSE FLAG COVER UP’?’ Or ‘NSA BUSTS EPA CHEMTRAIL LAB: WAKE UP SHEEPLE’?_

Crash!

Freddie froze. _Broken glass. Downstairs._

Straining, she could just make out voices, each doing their best _Goodfellas_ impressions.

“You heard da boss man, he done business with dis Johnson fella. We gotta go into da house and make sure there’s nuttin’ sensitive.”

“Like, wadya talking about?”

“Papers? I dunno. The usual, notes, maybe he gotta phone with calla ID. Anythin’ that’s gunna cause problems for da boss. Ya know whad I mean?”

_…The mob is working with Al-Qaeda?_ Freddie thought incredulously. This was supposed to be a simple investigation! A few photos of shady government vehicles, that’s it! _Next time I’m staying home and just making the story up. Fuck getting real photos, that’s what Photoshop is for._

From downstairs, it sounded like they were using the first floor as a staging ground for _something_.

“Ok, you four go in. Imma gunna stay ‘round here as lookout. If I see da cops…I give ya a ring. An’ remember, if ‘ya run into anyone, ya’ leave. _Everyone’s_ sendin’ people here tonight. No sense in startin’ a war. Da boss wouldn’t like it.”

_Fuck. Now I can’t leave._ She glanced around the room for an exit. _No attic…_ She didn’t dare leave the room and go out onto the second floor landing. She looked out the window, briefly contemplating climbing out. _Two stories up. Not a good idea._ Seeing the bed between her and the door, she thought, _worse case, drop and roll…? Yeah. Let’s just hope he doesn’t come up stairs…_

**FTRB HQ — Science Building**

After a far too long conversation explaining to city planning that no, even if the Johnson house had an asbestos problem, they could not send their ‘testing team’ in tonight, Jack walked back into second floor workroom.

Under Casey’s supervision, the room had been transformed into a makeshift war room. Where the center of the room once held scattered, spacious tables, it now held rows of tightly spaced telephones and computers, with extra monitors stacked two and three high. Even more computers, phones, and printers were squeezed in around the room’s periphery, underneath large plasma screens, maps, whiteboards, and anything else Casey felt worthwhile. Masses of cables hung from the ceiling, feeding the room’s voracious appetite for power and data.

Looking around the room, Jack could see Rankin’s team scurrying about monitoring social media, online news outlets and the police bands, while Beverly, Tom, Kurt, and Suzie worked the phones. In the middle of it all, poor Bowman dashed about like a man possessed, troubleshooting recalcitrant machines, conferring with Casey and fretting about security.

_Good subordinates are a Godsend,_ thought Jack approvingly, making his way to the center of the room. _Casey and Bowman had set this up in, what, 18 hours? And Bowman wasn’t even here for a third of that._ Satisfied that nothing needed his immediate attention, Jack made his way over to where Langton was updating a whiteboard listing the evening’s call thus far. A few moments later, Tom joined him.

“They’re running scared.” Tom said with a predatory grin. “The District Attorney, local PD, even the goddamned _Salvation Army_ called.”

Jack replied with a thin smile of his own. “Exactly where we want them.”

*******

As Hannibal finished taping together a large cardboard box, he noted a sketchbook half hidden under a pile of folders. Sadly, before he could assuage his curiosity, his phone rang. _What is it now?_ He glanced down at the screen. _Jeremy Beamish, again._ He grimaced. _More hysterics, no doubt._ He briefly considered ignoring the call, but he had long since learned it was best to answer. Who knew what Jeremy might decide to do if he thought something happened? It would not do to have another incident with the neighbors.

He turned to Abigail. “My apologies, I must answer.” Withdrawing, he made his way to the backyard.

“Hello?”

Jeremy did not disappoint. “Zhdanov is leading a coup against Councilor Rike and Kakos is backing it! Captain Fleischer is _trying_ to keep the revolution out of the streets, but he’s only one man! And _no one_ knows what Mason knows, which is _never_ a good sign!”

Hannibal glanced around the backyard, relieved to see that he was in fact, alone. Had someone overheard, the consequences did not bear thinking upon.

“Jeremy, listen to me. This happens every few decades. I have full faith in the Governor-General’s ability to keep the peace.”

“Fuck the peace! What about _us?”_

“Calmly, Jeremy, calmly.”

But, of course, there was no stopping the man. “What if Johnson tells them something! What if he tells them _everything?!”_

Hannibal took a moment to compose himself. Jeremy’s continual disloyalty to Casselden-Haywood was appalling! Jeremy owed everything to the man—his prestige, his fortune, his very immortality! Despite his fearsome reputation, Hannibal was constantly impressed by Casselden-Haywood’s continual patience and kindness.

_As evident by the unfortunate Beamish._

Instead, Hannibal spoke slowly, in a calm level tone “Casselden-Haywood is a wise and compassionate ruler. I am sure _you_ have nothing to fear.”

“You have no idea!” Beamish almost wailed. “He puts on such a kindly act, but he’s really a monster! You’ve never seen him upset!”

_If that were truly the case, you would have met the dawn years ago._ Hannibal was sorely tempted to find a way to let Casselden-Haywood hear the true side of his childer, and let the fool reap what he had so diligently and enthusiastically sown…but alas, were the incident made public, Hannibal would certainly find himself the scapegoat. Casselden-Haywood could never allow the public embarrassment that would follow a public airing of his protégé’s indiscretions.

Beamish continued to whine. “But what about _you_? What are _you_ doing to fix this?”

A tight smile slipped across Hannibal’s visage. “I’m where it all started. Tying off loose ends.”

***

“Jack, we have a problem.” Bowman shouted over the noise, spinning his chair away from the mountain of monitors and waving for Jack’s attention.

“What?” Jack shouted back. The sounds of ringing phones and many conversations thrummed through the air.

“One of the numbers we connected to Johnson just went live…you’re not going to like it.”

Jack groaned. “And? Where is it?”

“Lancaster…”

***

Hannibal turned to walk back inside, but before he’d even reached the door, his phone rang again. _What now?_ He glanced down at the number. _Captain Fleischer?_

“Good Evening Captain Fleischer,” Hannibal answered smoothly, “I hope this evening—”

“Cut the shit Lecter.” Fleischer snapped. “What is happening, and why didn’t you warn us?”

Hannibal pressed his lips together in distaste. _So uncouth. But what would one expect from a man who’d lived and died a Hessian mercenary?_ Keeping his pleasant demeanor, Hannibal spoke, “Crawford did not even consult—“

“We’ll have time for _that_ later.” Fleischer cut him off “Now, what is going on?”

_If he didn’t want an answer, why ask the question?_ But, Hannibal remained patient, ignoring the sound of breaking glass on the other end of the line. “It appears Mr. Johnson unwisely allowed himself to come Crawford’s attention.”

“ _Arschkeks, verfluchter_ swore they didn’t have enough to ID— _Scheiße_!” Captain Fleischer swore. There was a loud crack of a gunshot, followed by a clattering sound, most likely the phone falling to the ground.

The line exploded into bursts of gunfire and shouting. _Is that Russian?_ Hannibal thought he could make out in the background between sounds of clanging metal, and more panicked sounding gunshots. _It appears someone forgot the old Brethren adage, never bring a gun to a knife fight,_ he thought with amusement.

As there was nothing he could do, or would do, even if he had the opportunity, he hung up. _If Captain Fleischer survives, he will no doubt call back at a more opportune time._

Tucking the phone back into his jacket pocket, Hannibal froze. There was movement barely visible out of the corner of his eye. Something dark and quiet, lurking in the shadows amidst the trees of the nearby woods.

_Ah,_ _it appears we have a visitor…_

***

Mark Sutton peered carefully into the darkness beyond the Hobbs’ yard. _It was bad enough worrying about reporters sneaking in, but now we’ve got to worry about Clive Johnson as well? So much for a simple, one-man job!_

Satisfied, Mark started to make his way around the house. _At least Graham, Lecter, and Abigail are safe inside. Last thing we need is Graham accidentally provoking a riot…_ he shuddered at the thought.

Reaching the corner of the house, he turned, nearly running into…”Dr. Lecter?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. So that happened. Only a couple more postings left! As this was a short chapter, see you next week! Thank you for reading, it's been a fun ride!
> 
> Important, do you guys think I should continue in this posting for the next story, or start a new posting all together? I was thinking a new posting might get new readers, but I don't want to loose the ones we have from this one. Thoughts?


	28. Chapter Twenty Six

_“Unit 3, requesting additional assistance on Fleet Street. They’re spilling out of the bar something fierce, worse than when that bus of Browns fans came down for that Raven’s game. You’d think there’s a revolution on or something” — Transcript of Baltimore PD Radio Transmissions_

_“…When engaging in operations against our adversaries, more often than not, they become preoccupied with internal disputes. It is best to leave them be. The resulting chaos can make even the aftermath of the assassination Arch-Duke Ferdinand seem sedate and reasonable…” —FTRB Field Manual_

**FTRB HQ — War Room**

“Movement at the Johnson house!” Casey’s voice cut through the din of the ringing phones and exasperated voices. “Monitor 4!”

Kurt Spurgen looked up sharply, at the large, wall-mounted monitor. Moments later, a grainy image appeared, showing Johnson’s backyard.

Casey continued narrating the action. “Some clowns trying to sneak in through the back. Not subtle at _all_. What? Did I turn on the Benny Hill show or what? Yeah, put the gloves on _after_ you open the door and leave prints. Price did you see that? Never mind.”

_Surprising they’re taking the bait this early._ Kurt thought, glancing at the wall clock, almost lost amongst the newly-hung monitors and boards. _Not even nine o’clock._

Casey continued. “Oh they’re speaking…some sort of romance language? Italian?” Casey strained her face as she listened into the large headset. “Is he…yup. He’s trying to plant evidence.”

“If that’s the tack they’re taking, it’s not going to work.” Jack Crawford replied from across the room.

“Hey, we’ve got incoming!” Zeller called, standing up at his workstation a few feet away. “Black motorcycle, helmet, just crossed the police tape.”

Suddenly, the monitor cut to static.

“What the hell!” Casey interrupted. “I just lost the feed!”

“What do you mean?!” Jack bellowed. “Get it back!”

“Me too!” Zeller called out.

“I’m trying! All the house cameras are dead!” She began frantically flipping through feeds. All registered static.

“Try the ones down the street!”

“WHAT THE—“

**Baltimore — Near the Johnson House**

Seeing the flash, Freddie reflexively covered her head, a split second before the glass window in front of her shattered. As the screaming started, Freddie peered up in shock at the cloud of smoke and fire rising into the cool night. Through the haze, where previously stood a quaint, albeit very battered home, sat a charred, shattered ruin, with a few desultory beams poking out of the ashes. Burning debris slowly drifted down from the night sky.

Before fully consciously understanding what had occurred, her camera was out and recording. As she looked out the window, and she was glad for the earlier rain, as she watched cinders drift towards the roof just overhead.

Ignoring her coughing through the smoke filled air, she turned her camera on the street. After all, if she wanted to watch a mushroom cloud of smoke, well, _everyone else_ was filming it. She’d just watch it on YouTube later. No, she filmed the crowd.

As she did, a few things became apparent. Many people fled in panic, some taking pictures on their phones, but others stayed. While she was used to the general public’s reckless behavior witnessing public spectacles, the amount of individuals seemingly unconcerned for their safety confused her. One of the buskers, despite standing directly across the street from the explosion, had one hand on a phone, and the other taking pictures with a _very nice_ camera. All this while flaming wreckage rained down upon them.

From downstairs, she heard shouting into a phone _Fuck! Him._ With the flames turning their way, she had to get out of the house.

“They’re dead! No way they coulda survived dat! You wan’ me to stay?! The house is on fire!” The man downstairs shouted.

As stealthily as she could, she crept out of the room and closer to the staircase.

“Ok! I’ll move down da block! Is dat good?” He said in a panicked voice. _Understandable, given the fried state of his cohorts._ She heard him hightail out of the house, and after giving him a few minutes to clear the back fence, she made her own escape.

*** 

_City planning, the fire department, local PD…I can’t tell who’s crooked and who’s actually trying to help!_ John Rankin thought as he managed a large whiteboard, trying to keep track of who was calling what, and what was calling who.

“I get the sense they haven’t figured out what’s going on…” Zeller drifted off, just having hung up on some rather nosy reporters.

“I’m not even sure _we_ know what’s going on!” Bowman said desperately tracing back phone numbers. “Beverly, that wasn’t the Baltimore Sun. Number doesn’t check out!”

“Oh we don’t! We just know more than them!” Spurgen said laughing, a loud booming sound. _Glad to see he’s having a good time._ Rankin thought, scanning the work room. _Everyone_ was on the phones now, and even that wasn’t enough to keep up with the torrent of calls coming in.

Zeller put his head in his hands and groaned, before picking up yet another ringing phone.

“Hey, I’m sure they’re having a worse night than we are!” Spurgen chortled. _Too right._ Jotting down Zeller’s phone call to _yet another_ fake police officer, he smiled. It was nice to see they were finally taking the fight to the hemophages. _But…there goes my free time._

“So, just to keep score,” Jimmy Price looked up from a notepad. “According to local PD, and I think it’s actually them this time, the house got firebombed, which set off a gas explosion? Three different agencies, including one we’ve never heard of, called asking for copies of today’s report—”

“I told each of them one of the others has the original.” Suzie grinned. “That should keep ‘em busy for a while.”

“Mayor’s office just called!” Zeller shouted over. “Wants us to drop the APB on Johnson. When does the _mayor_ get involved—”

“No one gives a shit about the Mayor of Baltimore. At least right now.” Spurgen shouted back.

“Where’s Jack?” Rankin asked looking around the room. The man was conspicuously absent.

Spurgen shot him a look. “He’s on the phone with Higher.”

“Oh, someone we do give a shit about.”

“Yeah…”

“Is he in trouble?” Rankin didn’t know much about the organizations structure, but he did know it was never good when Higher called.

“Which one? Jack or Higher? I’m guessing Higher wanted a bit more of a heads up.”

“Better to ask forgiveness?” Rankin tried to crack.

“Ehh….” Spurgen chuckled. “We’ll see. Depends on how well this works…”

“Say, how do you think Graham and Sutton are doing out in Lancaster?”

“Having a quieter evening than us, no doubt.”

**Lancaster, PA — Hobbs House**

Will placed the last sweater in the cardboard box, and surveyed the empty room. _Not bad,_ he thought.

Suddenly, he heard Abigail shouting and running down the staircase. “Oh God! Someone’s upstairs!”

Will reacted immediately without thought, without hesitation. Dashing out of Abigail’s room onto the balcony overlooking the living room below, he collided with— _Clive Johnson!?!_ Johnson recovered first, throwing Will into the wall with stunning force. It was all Will could do to get his arms up to soften the impact. Will knew he had no chance of overcoming Johnson through pure strength.

Feeling Johnson grapple him from behind, scrambling for a grip on his throat, Will reached under his jacket. He didn’t even try to draw the pistol from his shoulder holster, instead twisting it backward and firing, again and again, through the holster and jacket. He was rewarded with several wet thuds. Ignoring the powder burns, Will took advantage of Johnson’s momentary disorientation to plant a boot solidly against Hobbs’ clean, white wall and _push._ Slamming backwards into Johnson, he let his momentum carry them both over the balcony.

_Best I can do._

***

_Fuck fuck fuck! They can’t take him alive!_ Abigail thought, blood pounding in her ears as she barreled down the stairs two at a time. _If they arrest him, he’ll tell them everything!_ Reaching the living room, she sprinted for the fireplace, and the double barreled shotgun hanging on the rack above the mantel. Spurred on by the sudden muffled gunshots upstairs, she snatched the gun and nearby ammunition. _Dad always kept it loaded. Not the best gun safety, but he said if you need it, there’s no time._

Turning, she jumped in shock as Will and Johnson toppled over the balcony onto the floor, landing with a hard crunch. She stood there gaping at Will lying on top of Johnson. _Are they…dead?_ She slowly started to approach them.

Suddenly with a groan, Johnson shoved Will’s limb body aside. Frantically, Abigail raised a shotgun and fired both barrels into Johnson’s head from mere feet away. With a deafening bang, Johnson fell back, his face a red ruin. Then with a groan, he started to slowly prop himself up. _What the hell? That was two—_ Gun already re-loaded, she fired.

She looked down at what little remained of Johnson’s cranium, at the shattered bone and brains splattered all over the carpet. Johnson had stopped moving but… _I need to be sure._ Starting to load the shotgun again, she felt Dr. Lecter’s cold hand firmly touch her shoulder. _Shit._ In all the chaos, she’d forgotten about him. He’d just seen her murder this man, who was clearly incapacitated from the fall.

She looked up at him, searching for an emotion, anything on his impassive face. Something to tell her what he was thinking. Silently, he took the gun, and the ammunition from her, his expression not changing. He meticulously finished loading two shells and, with calm precision, raised the gun to his shoulder, and fired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Short posting this week, so we'll be back next week for our final chapter. We have a couple omakes after that, but the story is winding down. Thank you so much for sticking with us! I know we could be a bit slow at times, figuring this whole fan fiction thing out--this was our first work. 
> 
> Any predictions on how things are going to end? :D


	29. Chapter Twenty Seven: Denouement

**Lancaster, PA — Hobbs House**

Gunshots pierced the calm, country air. From the creek down the hill, well into the woods, Mark Sutton abandoned all attempts at stealth. Making a mad dash for the house, he cursed himself all the way. More gunshots—louder this time, and then the roaring boom of a heavy rifle, no—a shotgun. A lot could happen in thirty seconds, all he could do was hope he wasn’t too late.

The shotgun roared again.

Branches whipped against Mark’s face as he sprinted up the hill. While Alderson and Clayburn would surely try and help, they didn’t know a damn thing about fighting a vampire. All he could hope was that in dying they delayed Johnson just long enough for him to save Abigail and Will.

The booming roar of the shotgun rang out a third time as Sutton cleared the woods, sprinting across the lawn.

“FBI!” He shouted, bursting through the backdoor with a well-placed kick. Reaching the living room, he surveyed the room in surprise and relief. They were all alive. Across the room, guns drawn, Clayburn and Alderson standing in shocked silence. Abigail, covered in blood, swaying like a reed, stood in the corner. Will laying on his back, on the floor, stirred feebly, clearly dazed, but with no sign of serious injury. And most surprisingly, Dr. Lecter, his fine clothes splattered with blood, bone, and brain, holding a smoking shotgun, standing calmly over the body. A body which Mark presumed to be Clive Johnson.

Finally, Alderson spoke. “What the _hell_ happened?”

 

**FTRB HQ — Jack’s Office**

“How’d it go with Higher?” Kurt Spurgen asked, handing Jack another cup of lukewarm coffee. From somewhere on Jack’s desk, a small yellow kitchen timer rang out.

Jack downed the cup in one gulp, and grimaced. “Next time he wants more warning.”

Kurt smiled. “Fair enough, ‘suppose. After all, man writes the checks.” Kurt had never directly interacted with Higher, all he knew was the man ran the entire East Coast operation out to Kansas City. _Mediating between Jack and Chilton? That’s not a job I’d wish on anyone._

Jack hummed, distracted as he reset the small, yellow kitchen timer that would dictate when he could have his next dose. Finally satisfied, he turned back to Kurt. “What are your thoughts on the take?”

“You know how I said we’d be busy for months? Now it’s a year, more even. And take your pick where we start—the mob, the mayor’s office, more digging into Johnson’s records. So much for the smart ones.” Kurt chuckled.

 

**FTRB HQ — Late Next Morning**

Will stood at the edge of the woods, impatiently watching the small brick house before him, illuminated by the eerie glow of the waning moon. He could hear the crowd at the foot of the driveway, beyond the house, but the backyard was quiet, the lone officer keeping watch having hurried off down the hill moments before. In a flash, he crossed the lawn, scaling the side of the house. The window opened easily enough…

“Will!”

He sat bolt upright, whacking his head on something hard and white, and fell back onto a pillow, moaning. The dull whir surrounding him changed, and the surface he lay on started to move.

_Right. I’m in an MRI._

He’d woken up on the floor of the Johnson house, learning that it was the quick thinking of Dr. Lecter saved them. They’d transported him back to Baltimore, and despite his protests, hurried him into the medical bay.

He blinked as he slowly slid out of the machine. Coming to a halt, he looked up into the worried blue eyes of Dr. Alana Bloom.

“What happened, Will? You started thrashing around.”

“Hmm?” He frowned in confusion. “Oh, I fell asleep. Nightmare. Nothing to worry about.”

She appeared unconvinced. “You took a nasty fall. We need to make sure there are no internal injuries. Or a concussion.”

Will smiled weakly. “I’ll try harder this time, Doctor.”

Alana gave him a small sad smile. “Okay. How about I put some music on?”

Before Will could object, Alana pushed a button to begin retracting him into the machine, and bustled away. [Upbeat music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClQcUyhoxTg) started to play.

_…Come on baby, don’t fear the reaper, baby take my hand, don’t fear the reaper, we’ll be able to fly, don’t fear the reaper…_

Will tuned out the music, staring blankly at the white walls of the MRI. _God, I can’t even lay still without disappointing._ He’d seen the look in Alana’s eyes, the concern, the pity, the disappointment.

What he wanted, needed, was to see Dr. Lecter. To talk, to explain, the plead. The man understood Will, in some small way, which was more Will could say of anyone else. But after what he’d seen? _I thought I could protect Abigail, protect all of them. But if Dr. Lecter hadn’t noticed the shotgun over the mantle, they would have all died, and their blood would be on my hands. Worse still, Dr. Lecter saw me, saw how I reacted when I saw Johnson. Saw the monster I became._

_No, I’m not just a failure. I’m a monstrous, dangerous failure, prone to unthinkable, violent outbursts, that could only barely be half-justified when standing between others and harm._

_But now? Maybe Bolet was right. Maybe they were all right._

 

**Freddie Lounds’ Apartment — Noon**

Freddie Lounds looked down at the bottles on her desk. One tequila, one aspirin, both half empty. Not sure which one she needed more, she settled for a bit of both. She hadn’t slept the previous night. Never had she seen so much action in one place. Between her camera footage, the local newspapers, and her scribbles on a notepad…well she wasn’t sure what she had.

At least knowing Crawford wasn’t involved in the house provided some comfort. _Just the nice regular mob. I can’t believe I’m saying that. But,_ _no Crawford, no hemophage whack jobs. But what, who did this? Who staked out a house the FBI had already raided? Who firebombed the house? Who was the man on the motorcycle, and most importantly, what did the mob have to do with this house?_ There seemed to be many different factions at work that night. One thing was for certain, this Al-Qaeda bioterrorism lab was clearly a cover-up.

While the size of the explosion seemed to support the laboratory story… _wouldn’t the FBI have removed that?_ Her ‘consultant’ on such matters assured her that it would take something much larger than a softball to cause something that big. _But what had the motorcyclist thrown? And why? It was sure convenient the motorcyclist died in police custody merely hours later._

Looking down at her whiteboard covered in a web of notes, theories, and wild speculation, she took another drink. She had hours of police band recordings, an inbox full of hot tips, but none of it made any sense!

_You could just stop._ The voice of reason told her. _Go back to cancer cures, and Bigfoot sightings._ She shook her head. _Impossible. Even if I can’t publish it, I have to know…_

_But people saw me at the cafe!_ She thought angrily. _They’ll expect something. No article is as good as admitting I know something’s wrong—and anyone willing to blow up a house, well…it’d be nothing to make an intrepid reporter disappear…_ She’d just have to find a way to publish something without offending someone. _Journalistic integrity is annoying,_ she thought, contemplating just saying fuck it, Aliens did it. _Nah, with everything else this week, they could exist too!_

_What if I just republished theories posted by others? I can’t get in too much trouble. Whatever the Baltimore Sun publishes, should be safe…_

It just made her feel so dirty, toeing the party line.

 

**Baltimore MA — Dr. Lecter’s Office — A Couple Days Later**

Abigail pulled her coat closer to her chest, though it was already tightly closed. The heavy, wet April air whipped around her, as she walked down the street. As she walked, she eyed the parked cars, searching for the big, fancy car she’d seen Dr. Lecter drive in Lancaster. _Not that one, not that one, where did he park?_ Standing in front of the large building, she glanced back down at the note. _This is the address,_ she thought incredulously, looking up at the stately stone and brick building, ivy creeping up the sides. _But he hasn’t parked on the street._

Circling the street and the building once again, she finally saw a garage, seemingly attached the back. _Now just to wait._ She plopped down next to the garage door, and placed her internal frame hiking backpack down on the ground beside her.

After an hour or so, the garage door opened. Quickly, she jumped to her feet.

“Abigail?” Dr. Lecter tilted his head, clearly intrigued, his face only showing the slightest hint of surprise. Today, he was wearing a coffee brown suit with light plaid and a light blue shirt, offset by a dark blue and brown paisley tie and pocket square.

“Dr. Lecter.” There was just something almost otherworldly about him. Was it his sharply defined cheek bones? Or the calmly imposing air about him?

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

She had to admit, that was a good question. She wasn’t entirely sure herself. _In hindsight,_ she thought, _this plan sounded better in the hospital._ “I needed to talk.”

“You had no need to come here.”

“You weren’t at the hospital.” She eyed him pointedly. _And what am I supposed to do? Use the public phone?_

“Why don’t you come in from the cold.” He gestured for her to follow him inside.

“Don’t you have somewhere to go?” She asked, picking up her heavy backpack.

“Nothing that can’t wait.” He lead her into the garage, and up to a backdoor. “You first.” He gestured with a graceful wave of his hand.

She walked through the door and found herself standing in a long green hallway. He quietly closed the door behind her. She followed him through a small waiting room. As he unlocked his office door, he asked, “Why did you choose to wait outside? Why not simply enter through the front door?”

As she entered his office, she had to try not to gasp. It was gorgeous. She’d never seen an office like it. There was even a second story, overlooking the room, with a curled brass balcony railing. It looked like a grand old library, the kind found in estates in England, not here in Baltimore.

“Abigail?”

“Sorry.” She remembered why she was there. Placing her backpack on the floor, she continued. “I didn’t want to inconvenience you and your appointments.” _With the media, the less I’m seen the better,_ she thought, _Plus, it was already a large enough gamble coming here without making you give awkward explanations…_

“How very considerate.” He merely replied, quietly closed the door. “But, why are you here?”

Looking at a display case, she examined a couple of brightly illuminated books, the gold leaf catching the light. _Seeing such things outside of a museum, so close…_ She tore her gaze away. “You’ve been to the hospital. Why would I want to stay?”

“There are many resources at your disposal.”

“Ah, yes. _Group therapy._ Somehow I don’t think saying _oh I killed a man last week_ to a group of strangers is going to help.” _What would I even say? It was totes an accident?_ She thought sarcastically. _They already think I'm a killer…_

“And what do you propose would?” He stood there, composed as always, not a blonde hair out of place. There was something cold about him, something that reminded her of a marble statue.

“Well, I came here for a reason.” She started climbing a ladder up to the mezzanine.

“You wish to discuss what happened to your victim, Clive Johnson?” Abigail flinched. Put like that, _no,_ she did not. _Why is he doing this?_ It was clear he knew. He’d seen her run to the mantle and get the shotgun before Will hit the ground. Johnson was injured, they could have easily subdued him. Instead she emptied a double-barreled shotgun into his head. _Twice._

“You helped me. Why?” She looked down at him, her voice forceful, making a point to look him in the eye. His dark eyes serenely looked back.

With a tone of amusement, he said, “Do you always bite the hand that feeds?” With him standing there, perfectly still, one hand resting on the desk, watching her every movement, she couldn’t help but feel like he was a cat about to pounce.

“The doctors say I have trust issues.” She turned away from the balcony, away from his gaze, and started examining one of the many bookcases. _Besides, it’s not like I have time to wait around for someone else to take the first step._ In her mind’s eye, she saw the small intricate ceremonial dagger that her father gave her that matched his own. Surely, it was just a matter of time before the FBI found it, and the whole house of cards came tumbling down. _And when they come for me, if I’m out of the hospital at least I have a chance…_

“A common diagnoses for someone who has endured what you have.”

“Do you think the diagnosis is accurate?” She challenged.

“That is yet to be seen.”

She looked back down. He still hadn’t moved. “So, my question. Why did you help me? You could have told them.” _With your medical background, you must have known he was dead, if not by the first shot, then the last. But, you didn’t just take credit, you put two more shells in! What did you think Johnson was going to do? Rise from the dead?_

He simply said, “Would you not do the same for a friend?”

Abigail froze and stared. His seemed utterly sincere. Yet the innocence of his words and countenance failed to align with the cold calculation of his actions. _And here he was talking about friendship like Sesame Street._

“Is that what we are?” She raised an eyebrow in what she hoped was a skeptical expression.

“We’ve killed together. I certainly hope we’re friends.”

_He said it. We’ve killed together._ She didn’t know how to respond. All it did was open new questions. Why would a mild mannered psychiatrist want Clive Johnson dead? Why was he so handy with a shotgun? And why take such a risk on her? Surely the FBI did not know his motivations, what game was he playing with them? She broke eye contact and started to examine a bookshelf, unsure how to respond.

Finally, apparently taking pity on the awkward silence, he said, “So, how did you get here?”

“They think I was signed out. I have 24 hours.” She replied, continuing her perusal of the shelf.

“By whom.”

“You.” She looked down at him defiantly, locking her gaze with his dark brown eyes, daring him to say something. If he was going to push, she was sure as hell going to push right back, and if anything happened to her, they’d know exactly where to look first.

She watched him pace around the side of his desk with an expression that seemed surprised and touched. “You took a leap of faith.” He said, a slightly amused smile touching the corner of his lips.

“As did you.”

“I see.”

_So I guess we’re in this together? Take allies where you can, I guess…_ She hesitantly thought, as she looked down at his openly expectant face. Asking the question she’d been thinking for days, she said, “Have you heard anything from your FBI friends about this?” _Might as well find out if Clayburn and Alderson are going to take me away…_

“With Johnson’s death, I suspect that, absent additional evidence, they will consider the matter closed. Is there any additional evidence?” He asked, turning to look at her pointedly.

She couldn’t believe it. Things might actually work out, stay an unfortunate footnote in her past. Killing Johnson _had_ been the right choice. Coming down from the mezzanine, she laughed, tossing her hair back confidently. “No, I can’t think of anything.”

He smiled, hard and thin. A predatory flicker in his eyes. “Then perhaps we can discuss this.” Opening the drawer on the side of his desk, he reached in and carefully placed something on the desk. _The small ceremonial dagger._

_Her_ dagger.

 

**Baltimore, MA — Dr. Hannibal Lecter's Home — Later that Evening**

Hannibal poured himself another glass, and settled back into a green velvet chair in the parlor. “…And I suppose I cannot tempt you?” He smiled at Bedelia DuMaurier, and raised the crystal decanter.

She sat across from him in one of the green velvet chairs. Her blonde hair was perfectly coiffed in curls and her black dress a lovely contrast to her pale skin. “No, thank you,” she replied. “I think I’ve had enough for the evening.” She placed her empty glass back onto the glass table next to her chair.

“What a shame.” Holding the glass by the stem, he took a small careful sip, savoring the rich, heady tastes layered in the blood. Rising, he walked to the window, pulling the curtain back to admire the night sky. “It is a wonderful vintage.” He lightly teased, briefly looking over his shoulder at her. “I remember selecting this one with you.”

“You give me far too much credit.” She coldly replied, also rising from her chair.

“Oh, but if I recall, you took a dislike to him first.”

Her lips tightened into a thin line. “As you often say, immortality is no excuse for boorish behavior.”

Hannibal smirked, watching her gracefully glide over to a tall mahogany bookcase.

With a curious expression, she asked, “What may I ask of the young woman upstairs?”

After the initial shock of the knife had subsided, Abigail was adamant that she not return to the hospital that evening. He’d asked her where she planned to stay, and she had simply replied, ‘Well, _you_ _did_ sign me out’. He smiled in amusement. He had to admit, she was surprisingly audacious.

“Do not be concerned.” He replied. “She is sedated. For her own safety of course.”

“Oh?”

He flashed a sharp smile. “Casselden-Haywood would expect nothing less.”

She remained emotionless. “I don’t think Cassleden-Haywood would approve of your little _experiments_.”

Absentmindedly swirling his glass, he said, “He is not one to speak. Just look at the company he keeps.” He turned back to watch the empty road, watching the occasional beams of light—headlights of passing cars.

“Jeremy Beamish is merely conventionally incompetent. You flirt with the doom of our entire race.” He could hear her slowly approach.

_This again._ He didn’t even grace her with a look. _It is completely melodramatic._

“Your thoughts are an open book to me, or did you forget? You know no one wants a return of the Inquisition.”

He sighed. _Bedelia knows me far too well._ Slowly he turned around to face her, and looked down, “Do you really see Jack and Will at the head of an army?”

A faint smile flickered at the edge of her red lips, “More unlikely things have happened. Look at Beamish.”

_It’s good to see Bedelia can still maintain a sense of humor._

Hearing the thought, her smiled morphed into an exasperated glance. Recomposing her expression, she said, “But why, may I ask, why the Hobbs girl?”

“I saved her life.” He glibly replied. “Will knows that. He cares for her.” He turned back to look out the window, and up at the moon, and reflected on the night sky. Here in Baltimore it was so different from the pure unadulterated clarity of Lancaster.

Bedelia’s voice brought him back to the present. “But why take the risk? You do realize that with all the attention Graham lavishes on her…any unexplained change in her behavior will draw notice.”

“I took great care to feed her only what was required to awaken her from a coma. She does not remember, and I’ve no intention of allowing her another taste. There should be no lasting psychological effects.”

“What of Alana?” Bedelia observed pointedly. “Are you not concerned she might become jealous at the attention you lavish on your new protégés.”

“Enthralling Alana was a mistake. One I have no intention of repeating. Will and Abigail shall retain their independence.”

Bedelia scoffed. “Graham I can understand. I disagree, but I can understand. But why the girl?”

He spoke slowly, thinking out loud. “A means to end. Another way to integrate myself with Will, and his sympathetic colleagues.”

“I’d practice that answer for the Governor-General.” Bedelia’s voice was cold and sharp. “It is just as well he has yet to realize the full extent of your involvement in the Johnson affair.”

“You overstate my role. Merely a few nudges, here and there.”

“Remember that characterization,” she replied, her breath hot on his neck. “It may prove useful at the tribunal investigating the fall of Baltimore.”

He closed his eyes, taking a moment to revel in the scent of her perfume. _Gardenia, Pear, Bergamot…_ “There is no risk to the Governor-General. He did not disappoint. The week has concluded, and he still reigns.”

“For _now._ ” She sharply replied. They stood there in silence for a moment, her hovering right behind him, almost about to touch him. Suddenly she pulled back, her voice softer, more gentle. “I must admit, you did handle the crisis in Lancaster very well.”

“I’m glad I lived up to my reputation.” He smugly closed the curtain and turned around. Looking down, she was still close enough that he could easily reach out and touch her neck.

“I expect you’ll see an influx of patients in the coming weeks?” She raised an eyebrow curiously.

It was funny how in times of stress, people often turned to psychiatrists, and Hannibal did have a corner on that market. There weren’t many that specialized in afflictions of the undead. Smiling a thin, cat like smile, he replied, “One of the many benefits of the past week’s events.”

“I wish you the best of luck in managing all your commitments.” She nodded and took a step back.

Hannibal ostentatiously straightened his cuffs, still extraordinarily pleased. “It is such small challenges that give life its flavor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to my Will Graham Pandora station when Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear the Reaper from 1976 came on, and it was perfect for the scene. I embedded the link in the scene for your enjoyment. :D
> 
> And this brings our adventure to a close. We have two Omake postings left, which I'll do over the next couple weekends. Don't worry, think of this story as a prequel. I've already started writing Book 2. Trying to come up with a name. Something about mongooses I think. 
> 
> So, what are your predictions? Thoughts on the Abigail and Hannibal relationship? Anyone who wants to chat about the story, or future plans, feel free to drop me a line at costumesofHannibal on tumblr, or CitoyenneClark on twitter. 
> 
> I'm thinking of doing a social media push, now that the story is basically done. I encourage ya'll to share. :D 
> 
> Once again, I want to thank all of you who have stuck with this story, and everyone who comments! You keep me writing! Thank you so much!


	30. Omakes #3.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! It's been a fun ride, here's the omakes of what else happened in Baltimore the night Clive Johnson's house blew up.

**Omake #3 Part 1**

**FTRB Base:**

“Deal me in,” Rankin said, sitting down, joining Tom Hubble, Jimmy Price, and Casey Jones in their card game.

“So, did we ever figure out _what_ happened last night?” Jimmy asked as Tom shuffled the deck.

“Well,” Tom started, dealing out cards. “we know there was a gas leak—“

“Wait, you mean there actually was a gas leak?” Rankin exclaimed. “I thought that was a joke!”

“Yup,” Tom nodded, “That’s basically the one call-in that wasn’t complete bullshit.”

“So, who was the motorcyclist?” Jimmy asked. “Or the mobsters?”

Tom shrugged. “We may never know.”

 

**Underground — The Previous Night**

_Shit. They can’t find all the stuff we did together._ Gerald Norton swore as he sprinted down an underground tunnel. _Calm down, if anyone knows the steam and sewer tunnels in Baltimore, it’s you. You just have to make it look like an accident. With all the people running in and out tonight, someone is sure to make a spark…_

 

**Elsewhere in Baltimore:**

"For the last time, _gentlemen,"_ bellowed Captain of the Guard Manfred Fleischer, slamming his fist onto the bar counter. ”You will settle this dispute peaceably!" He glared at the gathered assembly of 'family representatives' on the other side of the bar, who had gathered to hear Zhdanov's challenge to Councilor Rike. _Representatives my ass, common riffraff the lot of them._ Fleischer scowled, before turning sharply and stomping to the far end of the bar. The shouting immediately resumed.

He ignored them, facing the shitty collection of cheap beer on tap. _They’ll be at this all night. But sadly, this is the least of my problems._ Taking out his cell phone, he dialed.

Dr. Lecter picked up on the second ring. “Good evening Captain Fleischer, I hope this evening—“

“Cut the shit Lecter,” Fleischer snapped. “What is happening, and why didn’t you warn us?”

“Crawford did not even consult—“.

Fleischer cut him off. “We’ll have time for that later. Now what is going on?”

Hearing a glass break behind him, Fleischer turned sharply, but it was just someone sweeping a table clear for emphasis.

Lecter continued, unfazed. “It appears Mr. Johnson unwisely allowed himself to come to Crawford’s attention.”

Captain Fleischer swore. “ _Arschkeks, verfluchter_ swore they didn’t have enough to ID—”.

A burst of gunfire cut off Fleischer’s line of thought. “ _Scheiße_!” He swore, dropping his phone and whipping around.

Some young idiot, from the look of it, one of Rike’s supporters, had opened fire on Zhdanov from just a few feet away. However say what you will about Zhdanov, what he lacked in wisdom and foresight, he more than made up for it in tenacity and bloody-mindedness. It would take a lot more than a couple shots to the chest to put him down. After all, the man had survived God only knew how many revolutionary struggles in God only knew how many places.

Yet again, Zhdanov’s instincts served him well. He launched himself, not to the side, not directly towards his attacker, but forward and _up,_ over the table before him, directly toward Councilor Rike himself.

One of Rike’s supporters threw himself in front of his patron, for all the good it did him. Clearly, the man had not yet had time to get his blood up. As Rike, Fleischer, and the gathered crowd watched in horror, Zhdanov slammed into the impromptu bodyguard like a freight train, driving a hardened wooden stake straight through the man’s armored jacket _and_ the mail shirt underneath, burying it deep in his chest. The man immediately collapsed, like a puppet with cut strings. Fleischer couldn’t tell if it had actually hit the man’s heart or not, or if he was just a good actor, but he’d worry about that _later._

Everyone’s blood was up—Rike’s, his supporters, Zhdanov’s core of would be revolutionaries—and all of the others who’d come just to watch the show.

The room erupted into a general melee, as Rike’s men rushed him away. Zhdanov and his core cadre pursued, and everyone else took sides, fled for cover, or just took the chance to settle an old score entirely unrelated to the drama before them.

_I knew this mediation shit wouldn’t work,_ Fleischer thought, blood now pounding in his ears. Stake and sword now in his hands, he vaulted the bar and waded into the fight.

Slashing and stabbing his way through the crowd, Fleischer put down all that stood in his path. Some idiot, maybe even the same idiot as before, ineffectually turned a gun on him. Fleischer laughed, baring his teeth, lopping the shooter’s arm off at the shoulder. Oh, it would grow back, _eventually,_ but until then it’d be a constant reminder to _not fuck with the law._

A squat man charged towards him, stake in hand, deciding to take a go at Fleischer in the chaos. Fleischer deftly side-stepped the man, and turning, pushed the man forward, the man’s momentum carrying him face first into a wall. Before he could recover, Fleischer slammed a stake of his own into the man’s back, immobilizing him, and pinning him in place. _Again, deal with him later._

The sound of Fleischer’s ringing phone cut through the air. The gunshots now subsiding, the room was largely empty. Rike and his supporters had fled, and most of Zhdanov’s crew after them.

Fleischer stood in the middle of the bar, and surveyed the room, looking for his phone. The bar was littered with bodies, some staked, some missing limbs, moaning and screaming in pain. There were even a few random heads rolling about the floor.

Finally locating his phone, he dug it out from under a random leg, and wiped the blood off on his jacket. “Hello?”

“Sir, about Johnson’s house—“

_Scheiße!_

 

**Across Baltimore:**

_It doesn’t make any sense._ But Lydia Davenport had trained for this. _Back to first principles_. She inhaled. _First, I recognize that I am confused._ She had met Clive Johnson. He was certainly a fool, and he was certainly foolish enough to become involved in this mess, but on this scale? No, someone else was involved.

After some intensive thought, she picked up the phone. In a trained valley girl lilt, she said, “Mackenzie, we need to stay away from this. Like, this will be the largest mess Baltimore’s seen in years. But, we are not getting involved. Understood?”

Hearing a confirmation, she hung up. _On the next order of business. Johnson’s idiot sire will to lose his position on the Council, he’s protected the fool for far too long. Now how best to profit?_

 

**Chateau Verger:**

Margot Verger ran and hid. When her brother Mason flew into one of those rages, there was no stopping him until he had broken anything or _anyone_ that caught his ire. From upstairs she could hear him scream.

“MOTHER FUCKERS!”

From his ensuing stream of profanity, it sounded as if her brother’s men had encountered some difficulties in their expedition to the Johnson house. Fortunately for once he didn’t seem to blame her.

“Set a trap for me?! Motherfuckers! Thought I’d just walk in?!”

_And…there he’s lost control._ She heard the sounds of breaking furniture downstairs. _Must have been a really bad one._

 

**Elsewhere, Back Office of a Dusty Library:**

“What did you do!” Practicus Cyril Godfrey shouted at the younger mage.

“I don’t know what happened! It was a standard incendiary spell! It wasn’t supposed to be that large! Just a small fire to let the fire department in!” Neophyte Issac Cossar wrung his hands in panic, blood sweating up on his brow. With the appearance of a young college student, he looked nervously up at his senior colleague.

Cyril held his head in his hands. _You leave neophytes alone for one minute…!_ “When Eberhartner finds out…”

At the mention of the Adeptus and leader of the local order of the Golden Dawn, Cossar paled. The young man could barely stand, bracing his knees trying not to buckle. “We can’t let her! There has to be a way to fix this! I’ll show you the formula!” He started shuffling around a worn messenger bag.

Cyril rolled his eyes at the pentagram pins tacked onto the black messenger bag. Finally, Cossar pulled out a crushed scroll of paper.

Cyril sighed, taking the scroll. “At least the motorcyclist can’t remember your involvement. Do you have a sample from him?”

“Yeah,” Issac almost squeaked, shuffling again in the bag, this time pulling out a plastic bag in which contained a lock of dark hair. “I can—“

Cyril snatched the plastic bag. “No. _I’ll_ do the ritual. When this is over, we’re having a _lengthy_ discussion about your future.”

 

**A Baltimore Police Station — Later that Evening:**

Between the FBI raid and the explosion, it had been a long day, and showed no signs of slowing down. Police Sergeant Tom Waymack glanced down at the security cameras for interrogation room B. Inside a couple officers were unsuccessfully trying to interrogate a man clad in black motorcycle leather. Security footage placed him throwing something into the house, immediately before the explosion. Unsurprisingly the man claimed to have no recollection of the event, and he was proving remarkably resistant to interrogation. Waymack could see the conversation was going nowhere.

Suddenly, one of the interrogators hit the table in frustration; the man jumped up in fright, slipping on the floor. He slammed into the table, jostling one of the officers. A gun discharged. Waymack looked at the monitor in horror as the very dead motorcyclist slumped across the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have one more posting, next weekend. Its of the rest of the Omakes for part 3. Thank you all for reading! As always, I'd love feedback on the story as a whole, what do you guys think? It's my first time writing, how was the quality? What characters do you want to see more of in Book 2? Less of? 
> 
> Feedback is crucial for book 2! :D


	31. Omakes #3.2

**Omake #3 Part 2**

_“…Following a stint as a researcher with the Army, he first joined the original FBI special project’s group, where he served in a number of capacities. He then transitioned to the Mountain Facility, and then assisted in the establishment of the FTRB’s Baltimore campus, where he remained until his untimely death…”_

_—Obituary of Donald McCusker: Classified [Not for Public Distribution]_

**No Such Agency:**

“You can’t take _any_ appointments during the day?” Jack asked Dr. Lecter skeptically over the phone.

“I’m afraid that my employer does not like to ‘share’.” Hannibal replied.

“Who are they? I’ll have a word with them.”

“I’m afraid that pursuant to the terms of the confidentiality agreement, I can neither confirm nor deny any details of the engagement. All I can say is that I work with the Federal Government of the United States.”

“I understand.” Jack said, outwardly calm but inwardly seething. _Fucking NSA._ _How many times at Quantico did I take meetings with the CIA, Secret Service, DEA, and ‘Federal Government’? Who do they think they’re kidding? We all know who was invited, but they do it anyway. No Such Agency indeed. Assholes._

**Why Jack Hates Road Trips:**

Hour 1: Jack closed his eyes as closed his notebook. Next to him, Beverly drove the van up towards their destination of Burlington, Vermont. In the back of the van, he could hear the rest of the Science Team chatting away.

Hour 2: They were still talking. Jack cringed as a he felt the creeping signs of a headache.

Hour 3: _Finally, silence._ Jack thought, glancing up at the rearview mirror. Everyone was playing on their phones.

Hour 4: “How much longer?” Zeller whined for what must have been the 4th time.

“Well, how long have we been in the car for?” Beverly patiently replied. “It’s an eight hour trip, you can do math.”

Hour 5: Tired of Bowman and Zeller bitching and moaning about how hungry they were, and wanting to stop, Jack looked out the window at the potential dining options. _KFC and Taco Bell. Yup. Sandwich from the cooler for me._

Hour 6: “And what part of that seemed like a good idea?” Beverly tutted as Jack rolled down the window. Unfortunately, Bowman’s plan of testing some new Virtual Reality headset ended with him puking out the moving van. _We’re going to have to hit a car wash when we get up there. Or see if the motel parking lot has a hose. I am not wiping the van down with Taco Bell napkins._

Hour 7: _You can make it. We’re almost there,_ Jack chanted to himself, sorely tempted to ‘confiscate’ for himself the ‘water’ he knew Price was drinking in the back. _Never been one for vodka, but right now I’ll take anything…_

**A Poor Influence Attempt:**

“No,” Jack said with forced politeness, before slipping into a bureaucratic monotone, “Although we at the bureau appreciate the concerns of the Baltimore City Planner’s Office regarding the previously unknown asbestos problem afflicting Mr. Johnson’s residence, at this time we are not able to permit your ‘testing team’ access to the building any sooner than tomorrow morning, at which time members of my team will be available to escort your team through the premises.”

Sadly, the insufferable bureaucrat was not appeased. “But you don’t understand! The hazards to the community—“

“Have already been mitigated,” interrupted Jack, “as the nearby homes have been evacuated.”

“But!”

“I am _so_ sorry to cut you off, but I’m getting a call on the other line from Capital Hill.”

And, without letting the little shit get in another word, Jack slammed down the handset on to its receiver. _Well,_ he thought, jotting down a few notes about the call. _You have to give them points for creativity._ Hearing the phone ring again, he glanced down at the caller ID to see another call from the same number. _And perseverance._ He sent the call straight to voicemail, and for good measure, set the phone to do the same with all future calls from the same number. _If only government agencies were usually this diligent…_

**Information for Dr. Lecter:**

“I finished going through Abigail Hobbs’ social media.” Lloyd Bowman presented to the group. “She doesn’t have a lot of Facebook friends, which backs up her story about being isolated. But,” he said, flipping through his notes, “she does have a [fanfiction.net](http://fanfiction.net) account.”

“A what?” Jack asked.

“She wrote fan fiction. Quite a bit. Sherlock, Harry Potter, White Collar, a lot of it is fairly explicit slash.”

Jack furrowed his brow, clearly confused as to what Bowman was talking about. Deciding it wasn’t worth his trouble, he dismissively waved a hand. “Just send it all to Dr. Lecter so he can continue his profile.”

Alternate World:

**Convincing Will Graham:**

Hannibal looked at Will intently. “You would not fault a man for feeling relief for a stay in execution, would you?”

Will looked at him in confusion. “But I wasn’t going to be executed…?”

“Weren’t you?” Hannibal quirked his head. “The things you know, the things you’ve seen. Did you think they’d just let you go?”

An expression of abject horror slowly dawned on Will.

**Casey Driving Will and Abigail To Lancaster:**

With Graham and the girl finally out of the car, Casey dialed Beverly. _No answer._ _Time to leave a voice mail._ “Beverly this is Casey. I have a bug report. Your people are broken!” 

**Megan King Driving Will and Abigail To Lancaster:**

Graham was still talking like an idiot, and the girl was remaining unresponsive, brooding in the corner. Music choices? Seriously? It was taking this long? _Fuck this. I’ll give them both a piece of my mind._

“Both of you, yes both of you!” They instantly shut up. “Stop it. Graham, are you fucking joking? She doesn’t want to talk to you! Abigail, stop being so fucking indecisive. Just pick something! Look I know he wants to sit here and babysit your sorry ass, but get over it! Both of you! Everyone has dead parents, everyone has a sob story. You’re acting like you think you’re special? We’ve all had shit happen. Guess what? You’re not special! For Jesus Christ get over it!”

**Where Philip Langton Accompanies Will and Abigail to a Diner and Cassie Boyle’s Brother Confronts Them:**

“There she is! How’s it feel eating normal food? Probably not good enough for you! Did you really eat my sister you bitch!” There was a scruffy kid throwing a tantrum in the middle of the diner.

_Really?_ Phillip Langton thought, rising from his seat. Graham was already standing up, almost shaking. _Leave this to the professionals kid._ Langton leaned over and put a hand on Graham’s shoulder, signaling him to sit back down. Like an obedient dog, Graham sat. 

Langton slowly sauntered over to the young man, who was screaming like a toddler. He just stood over the young man, glaring at him. “Kid, I know your upset at the girl. I don’t blame you, but right now I’ve gotta job to do, and you’re in my way. Move it, scram.” 

The young man looked at him confused, before turning his rage on Langton. “It’s a public place, I have a right to eat my food without that fucking bitch here! She should leave! Who the fuck are you?”

Langton looked down at the dirty hippy, _If you’re going to go that route…_ “One last time kid, _beat it_.”

The young man lost it. He flew at Langton in a fit of rage. Before anyone else could register, Langton had him flipped over face down on a table, hands cuffed behind his back. Langton barely suppressed the grin. “You’re under arrest for assaulting a federal officer, public disturbance and obstructing justice. Now I’m going to call the local PD and they’ll haul your sorry ass off to jail.” _Eh…might as well go all the way,_ “And now Freddie Lounds can write an article about how the deranged brother of dead girl went apeshit bonkers in public.” 

**At the Diner, Sutton is in the Bathroom, Leaves Graham Alone:**

Graham turned to see a young man jump up from his seat across the diner. “Bitch! There she is! Fucking bitch killed my sister! I hope you rot in hell with your sick dad!”

Graham got up, pounding fury building up inside. He slowly walked towards the young man. In the background he could hear Abigail crying. _Abigail, crying._

He found himself standing in front of the young man, who was still pointing and yelling. “Do you know what I do?” Will heard a calm voice say _._ “They pay me to think like serial killers. You know what happened the last time someone I saw someone as a threat? Well…I don’t either, but they told me afterwards that I bit off his ear and lit him on fire.”

**Later that Evening:**

“Jack…you need to see this…” Bowman called from across the room.

“Bowman, I’m busy.” The evening was already launching into chaos. Jack didn’t have time for distractions. 

“No boss, you _need_ to see this, Will’s on TV…”

_God dammit Graham. The man couldn’t even get dinner without causing a scene._

**Alternate Final Will Scene:**

**FTRB Headquarters — Late Next Morning**

Groggily, Will wandered towards the ivy covered Administration building as Sutton went to park the car. Still sore from the tumble off the balcony, powder burns, and exhausted from lack of sleep, Will just wanted to report in and get home. He had tossed and turned all night, and unlike Abigail, could only catch a few minutes of sleep in the car ride home. It was cold, unlike Dr. Lecter, he did not bring a spare jacket. He’d refused Dr. Lecter’s offer of lending him his, so Will continued to wear his bullet hole riddled khaki green jacket.

After what happened, he didn’t think he could face Dr. Lecter. Surely, after watching Will fling himself off a balcony, Dr. Lecter would see Will for who he really was, violent and unstable. It wasn’t even as if his actions had purpose. He’d failed at protecting Abigail. If not for Dr. Lecter, they’d both be dead.

_Dr. Lecter is clearly far better suited for protecting Abigail,_ Will thought bitterly. _She even gets along with him better. And since Jack insists on keeping me out of the loop, I can’t even help with the Johnson investigation!_

Reaching the front door, he swiped his key card. _Nothing._ He swiped it again. It still didn’t work. _God dammit,_ he groaned. Fumbling to find his phone, he then remembered it had long since died. Exasperated, he hit the buzzer.

“This is Will Graham. My key card isn’t working.”

“Oh. Right. It’s you. You exist.” Casey muttered over the intercom.

The door buzzed and opened. Head spinning, Will wandered inside. 

The process repeated itself at every door from the Administration Building to the Science Building. _What the hell is going on?_ Will thought as a heavy door clicked behind him.

As he entered the Science Building, he was struck by how quiet it was. No chatter, not even the vocals of Phil Collins playing from the morgue. He walked upstairs, and as he passed the first floor conference room, he jumped. Spurgen, in full tactical gear and armed, was sprawled out asleep on the table. Coffee cups and wadded balls of paper were scattered about him. _Odd,_ Will thought. He continued on. The break room was deserted, the first floor empty. _I guess I’ll go upstairs, maybe Beverly is in her office?_

As he reached the second floor, he heard noise coming from the large workroom down the hall. Rounding the corner, he saw the door was propped open, and inside Price, Zeller, and Bowman were scurrying about. He poked his head inside and gaped. The room was in shambles, tables and computer equipment scattered from one end to the other. Almost buried in the center of a huge stack of boxes, at Bowman sat, hunched over, cutting out articles from a huge stack of recent newspapers.

“Hey!” Price shouted from inside the door, seeing Will. “Incoming!”

Will hastily moved out of the way, as Price and Zeller hustled by, heavily laden with boxes.

“…Did I miss something?” Will asked.

“Training exercise!”

“Yeah, training!”

“All routine here!” They all answered simultaneously. 

“Just audit season.” Bowman hastily added. “Annual report time.”

“Yeah!” Zeller chimed in. “Inspector General Audit.”

“But it’s April….” Will looked around confused.

“New schedule.” Price added.

Will frowned. “Where’s Jack and Beverly? I didn’t see them.”

“No idea.”

“Nope.” 

“He’s in a meeting.” 

“…Okay…” Will hunched his eyebrows. “Why is Spurgen asleep?” 

“He’s asleep?”

“No idea.”

“Cause Jack’s not around?” Price added helpfully.

Will tilted his head. “Do you need any help?”

“We’re good!”

“You’ll hear from Jack!”

“I heard he’s got a big case coming up.”

“You should get some rest.”

Will shook his head and turned to go. _We’re they always this weird?_ He thought as he left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll post a special Hannibal Christmas special at the end of this on Friday. Otherwise, this is the end of book 1. Thank you so much for reading! I'm glad you all enjoyed it.


	32. Christmas Special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Special: Hannibal and his vampire friends. It's set a year or two before the main story, all your favorite vampires, and cameos for more to come.

**Baltimore, MA — Hannibal Lecter’s Home**

It was that time of year, time for Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s annual Holiday party. Like past years, he’d transformed the first floor of his home. Roaring fires heated each room, crackling in the large stone hearths. Each room held an oversized, elaborately decorated Christmas tree. Lights on the trees caught and sparkled on the silk bulbs and delicate multicolored glass ornaments. Large wreaths hung on the doors, decorated with red bows and small gold bulbs.

Along one table in the foyer, silver platters laden with hors d’oeuvres were set up in front of an elaborate oversized gingerbread copy of Il Duomo di Firenze. Electric christmas tree lights lit up the inside of the cathedral, shining through the multi-colored hard sugar stained glass windows. Tiny sugar sculptures stood guard along alcoves on the walls, held in place by royal icing.

At the table beside, several bottles of champagne chilled in a large silver bucket, next to several smaller bottles of neatly labeled magically preserved mortal blood. Beyond that stood several bottles of the finest quality Brethren blood, a few small tasting glasses, and several large bottles of Ambrosia, the even rarer liquor that still effected their kind.

Hannibal finished neatly arranging champagne flutes, and took a step back to admire his handiwork.

“Don’t you worry it’s a little bare?”

Hannibal turned to see Bedelia DuMaurier called from the parlor doorway, already starting to imbibe on the evening’s drink. As always, she looked polished. She wore a dark green, off the shoulder, velvet dress, which perfectly matched his own velvet bow tie and cummerbund.

She continued, appraising the decor judiciously. “After all, Councilor de Marivaux had an ice sculpture at his last Salon.”

Hannibal briefly frowned, and sarcastically remarked, “Yes, and I particularly appreciated its perch on a marble plinth, seated upon a hard cherrywood floor.” He took a long look at the champagne flute already in her hand. “You do realize, we have certain responsibilities as hosts.”

Bedelia gave a light laugh of amusement. “Don’t mind me. I won’t cause a scene.”

The doorbell rang.

“It appears the first have already arrived. Hannibal, would you care to do the honors?”

***

Filled with festive cheer, guests milled about, dressed in a variety of bright holiday colors. Laughter filled the room, and champagne flute in hand, Hannibal smoothly glided about the foyer, greeting and talking to the more adventurous of Baltimore’s Brethren society.

“Oh! It’s been far too long since you’ve thrown a proper party!” A painfully thin woman with black bobbed hair practically cooed into his ear.

Hannibal turned with a charming smile. “Mrs. Komeda, a pleasure to see you. How’s the book?”

She tossed her hair back and laughed. “It seems every time I gain a following, it’s time to ‘die’ and start a new career.”

Hannibal flashed a roguish smirk. “The price of immortality.”

She chuckled in amusement. “Always the philosopher. But really, Dr. Lecter, you’ve outdone yourself.” She gestured to the small glass of Brethren blood in her hand. “How do you acquire such an extensive collection? The 1925 is exquisite. Such notes of chocolate and…” She closed her eyes in thought. “Raspberry?”

 _Ah yes, Nicholas Hollenbeck, broke a flower vase and tried to hide the result. In his final days, I force fed him humans gorged solely on raspberry bonbons._ Hannibal gave her a cryptic smile. “My supplier is a very private individual.”

She leaned towards him conspiratorially. “Well, when you do see him, please tell him I have a few Renoir's I’d gladly trade for a few bottles.” She shook her head. “I remember when it was easy to obtain. Youth today. Before you know it, they’ll say drinking mortal blood is barbaric too!”

Hannibal nodded sagely. “They merely allow themselves to be constrained by what they view as conventional morality.” Hannibal had heard the accusations. Among certain younger Brethren, there was this radical idea that drinking the blood of their kind was akin to cannibalism and probably murder. After all, drinking Brethren blood was not without risks, especially if the original owner was still ‘alive’. There was no such concern with any of the bottles in Hannibal’s collection. _After all, only the best for my guests,_ Hannibal thought with a sly smile.

Mrs. Komeda laughed. “We both know their objection is that they simply can’t afford it.”

Hannibal briefly mused on the hypocrisy of their society. It was an open secret that most of the bottled Brethren blood came from questionable sources, and vast outweighed the amount of ‘legitimate’ blood in circulation. ‘Legitimate’ blood was harvested from criminals and failed political opponents, legally executed by the state, and for one reason or another, the local leader deciding to drain and bottle them. It was a rarer and rarer occurrence in today’s political climate. Yet, somehow, it was perfectly acceptable to purchase questionable bottles, as long as one wasn’t directly connected to the murder and bottling itself.

“Oh! Did you hear, they say the Governor-General’s brought a young protege to town.”

“Oh?”

With a conspiratorial grin, Mrs. Komeda inclined her head slightly toward the front of the hall. There, standing next to the marble umbrella stand, stood two men. The first was well known to Hannibal, and Baltimore society. There stood Manfred Fleischer, Captain of the Guard to His Excellency, dressed in his usual navy turtle neck, grey sports jacket, and trousers, all cut to a fashion not in style since the Cold War started, and doing a poor job of concealing his bulky body armor. What surprised Hannibal was the man’s wildly incongruous red scarf and Santa hat. Sadly, that was the sole extent of the man’s holiday cheer. With his large, brown mutton chop whiskers, Captain Fleischer resembled a dyspeptic Teutonic lumberjack.

However, standing next to Fleischer was a young man, looking to all the world as if he was in his mid thirties, dressed in all black. _The protege, no, let’s not be coy, the childer._

“They say he’s originally from New England,” Mrs. Komeda continued. “But until recently was abroad.”

 _Unsurprising,_ Hannibal thought. The Knights of Philadelphia were notorious for sending their childer off to other cities and members, only returning when deemed properly able to join society.

Sadly, at the moment, Hannibal couldn’t see any more of the mean, as the childer had turned to speak with another newcomer, Theodoros Kakos, the esteemed leader of the city’s necromancer cult. Middle-aged, Kakos’s usual attire had the unfortunate effect of making him look like a rather overweight mall goth. _At least he had the sense to leave the skull t-shirts at home,_ Hannibal thought, disapprovingly. The man looked, to all the world, like he had walked off the set of some torrid vampire themed teen romance. He wore a long black frock coat, a double-breasted black embroidered silk vest, and a blood red tie. _Oh, and I see he did keep the silver pentagram pendent._ Glancing at the coat rack by the door, Hannibal had no doubt that the large black cape with blood red lining was also his. _Why doesn’t he just expose his fangs, and turn into a bat?_ Hannibal mused at how painfully stereotypical some of his colleagues could be.

Suddenly Mrs. Komeda gestured towards the front door. “Charles! Come join us!”

Councilor Charles-Maurice Denoix de Marivaux, cheerfully approached. He wore a pastel lime green and pink striped silk frock coat, complete ostentatious lace ruffles—the height of 1770’s French fashion. He was better known as the gossip king of Baltimore, a socialite, and an esteemed member of the Durand family. Unlike the Delacroix, the Durands merely aspired to talent, and in a transparently hollow attempt to compensate, turned their attentions toward painfully frivolous social spectacles, or worse still, _politics._ Councilor de Marivaux was no exception.

With him was a younger man Hannibal did not recognize. The man wore a deep purple sports jacket, lavender shirt, grey vest, matching slacks, and a royal purple and white scarf. The man had a distinctly sly expression, and made a beeline for the drinks. _No doubt another uninvited hanger-on._ Such was always the case at these large parties.

“Dr. Lecter!” Councilor de Marivaux exclaimed. “I _love_ what you’ve done with the house.” The younger man returned, and pressed a glass of Ambrosia into de Marivaux’s hands, before taking a sip from his own glass. “Thank you,” Gesturing towards the younger man, de Marivaux exclaimed, “Let me introduce, Anthony Dimmond, poet and bon vivant.”

The man’s hair was brown, which flickers of grey, but that did not detract from his overall boyish appearance. Shaking Hannibal’s hand, Dimmond smiled, “You must be our gracious host. _Charles_ told me so much about you.”

“Indeed?” Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s parties are of legend.” Dimmond replied with a roguish grin. “We hear about it even out in Chicago. You should see the fights over the invite for your dinner at High Court.”

Held every five years, in New York, around the winter solstice, High Court was _the_ social season. Leaders from the entire League would gather, along with _anyone_ who was _anything._ The Senate would meet, and any large disagreements would be settled. For the past several decades, Hannibal threw a large lavish banquet, one of the highlights of the social season.

“That reminds me,” Councilor de Marivaux cut in. “I remember this one party, in the Court of Napoleon…”

Hannibal politely smiled as he tuned out Marivaux. While Councilor Marivaux liked to make it seem like he milled about the grand courts with the first Emperor of France, and the last of the Bourbon kings, Hannibal knew that he’d been a butler in the Court of Napoleon III. _Ah, how over time everyone’s connections rise in grandeur. How many of our great houses that ‘date back to the illustrious homes of Roman aristocracy’, are merely descended from an inconsequential house slave?_

 _“And_ _there_ you are!” The group turned to see Mason Verger, holding a large glass of mortal blood, strut over. He hadn’t bothered to take off his over-sized white fur coat, which due to its size and high collar, made him look like a rather headless polar bear. Mason turned to Charles-Maurice de Marivaux, “Morris! You haven’t called! You know I can get those models, gorgeous women, or in your case, _strapping_ young boys.” Mason gave Dimmond a very noticeable leer. “Though, you seem to be doing just fine on your own.”

“Mason Verger, a pleasure as always.” Councilor de Marivaux replied, ever the picture of polite conversation.

“And _Hannibal!_ ” Mason continued, tutting. “I didn’t know _this_ was the kind of company you kept. Never expected _you_ to be the type.”

 _It would be so easy. Rip that uninvited gate-crasher’s throat out._ He imagined the blood splattering upon the floor, Mason’s body hitting the ground with a wet thunk. _But the blood would get everywhere, and I am ever so fond of this suit._ Instead, Hannibal smiled. “I see you found an invitation.”

Mason sneered. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of missing the _Great Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s Annual Christmas Party._ Oh, I mean ‘Holiday’ party. Can’t even say Christmas these days.”

_I could always dry clean the clothes._

Mason turned to Charles-Maurice, casting another leer in Dimmond’s direction. “So, Morris, I see you found another pillow-biter. I’m surprised you can even walk.” He gave him a snide once over. “Well, in _those_ clothes, I’m sure men are just lining up to get a piece of your overweight ass.”

Expression unchanging, Councilor de Marivaux politely replied, “Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.”

Mason looked at him blankly.

 _Catullus 16,_ Hannibal remained expressionless, hiding a slight smirk of surprise. _Oh dear, the fallout of this shall be interesting._ Dimmond however was less politic, and burst out laughing, before weakly attempting to turn it into a cough.

Mason’s confusion glazed over into fury.

 _Time to leave._ With a charming smile, Hannibal said, “I hope you all enjoy the party. I must attend to my other guests.”

As he moved to cross the room to greet Kakos and that circle, Dimmond moved to follow. Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

“I’m visiting town.” Dimmond explained, sensing Hannibal’s curiosity.

“Here alone?” Hannibal inquired.

Dimmond chuckled before flashing a suggestive look. “Is that a wish or a question? Sadly, I’m here with Charles, but as far as _he_ knows, I’m leaving town tonight.”

“I see. Well, enjoying the party?” Hannibal cryptically replied.

“It’s quite a spectacle.” Dimmond leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “There is always something entertaining in watching socialites try and remain polite no matter the circumstances. Something incredibly phony about the whole experience.”

“You believe politeness to be phony?”

Dimmond chuckled. “Not always, but I believe you, like me, know the difference. Unlike most here, who are taken in by a flash of a smile, and silken words.”

Hannibal looked vaguely amused.

“Well, I’ll be seeing you _later_.” Dimmond gave him a flirtatious wink, before turning away.

Kakos and his circle had disappeared, retreating no doubt off to refresh their drinks. Hannibal scanned the room. To his annoyance, he saw another uninvited guest. _Seth Searle. Trust my ‘brother’ to crash as well._ The drug dealing, degenerate cult leader wore his usual—a tight green emerald shirt, black leather pants that looked painted on, and an oversized silver snake pendant. _But what is this?_

As Hannibal watch,d Seth sidled up to corner Andre de Castiglione, who looked particularly unhappy by the intrusion. Hannibal supposed he should approach and intervene. After all, to society, de Castiglione was Hannibal’s cousin, the only other member of the Delacroix family in Baltimore. Luckily, the Delacroix were not particularly close knit, nor present in the New World, making Hannibal’s infiltration all the easier. _Still, I must keep up pretenses._

A flicker of panic crossed Andre’s face, and he swiftly pulled Seth’s arm, dragging him away from Hannibal and down the hallway away from curious ears.

 _Ah. I see Seth has found someone new to blackmail._ Before he could move, he heard the muffled sound of clinking chainmail approaching. “Captain Fleischer.” Hannibal turned to greet the man. _After all, who else would wear chainmail to a party?_

“Dr. Lecter.” Fleischer gruffly replied, before quickly gesturing to the younger man in his company.

The man wore entirely black. In fact, the only pop of color on his black suit, shirt, and pants, was a pair of green and red mistletoe cufflinks, tie, and matching pocket square.

Fleischer continued. “This is Jeremy Beamish. The Governor-General has invited him to Baltimore to assist in a few small matters.”

“Great to meet you!” Jeremy said with a friendly smile, extending a hand to Hannibal.

Hannibal silently nodded, and shook Jeremy’s hand. With a closer look, he could see that Jeremy’s clothing was constructed by the most talented of tailors, perhaps even the same tailor Hannibal used.

“I am honored that the Governor-General has invited me.” Jeremy Beamish cheerfully continued, glancing towards Fleischer. “I look forward to learning from him.”

Fleischer shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Well,” he said stiffly. “I’ll leave you both. Beamish, I’ll be in the car.”

They both turned and watched, as the sound of clinking receded into the crowd. “Oh, don’t mind him.” Jeremy shook his head, before glancing around the room. “The food here is a bit _sophisticated_ for Fleischer’s taste. He prefers things still _wriggling._ ”

Hannibal looked at Beamish impassively.

“Anyway,” Jeremy continued, gesturing around the room. “I’ve long heard of your wonderful taste. It’s an honor to see it in person.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve also heard you’re the one to talk to if one has a rare painting to move. In fact, I have a proposal…”

***

Hannibal moved about the parlor, leaving Kakos and two junior members of the Order of the Golden Dawn in conversation. Hannibal recognized them as Practicus Cyril Godfrey and Neophyte Issac Cosser, a college student, only recently turned. It was clear that Practicus Godfrey was there to oversee Neophyte Cosser, both attending instead of their leader, Councilor Adeptus Eberhartner. In truth, Hannibal was surprised to even see a representative from the Order. They very rarely left their Sanctuary.

A deep booming voice sounded behind him. “Merry Christmas!”

Hannibal turned, and to his distaste, saw Councilor Ricky Rike holding a small box wrapped in red and white candy cane print. A fireplug of a man, he wore a pair of dirt stained jeans, and a hideous red and white Christmas sweater.

“Councilor Rike.” Hannibal smoothly replied. “I trust you’re enjoying yourself?”

Rike’s booming laugh grated on Hannibal’s ears. “This is for you!” He thrust a package into Hannibal’s hands, forcing Hannibal to place his champagne flute down on the table next to a large gingerbread Nativity scene. “Don’t say I never gave you anything!” He laughed again. _He clearly indulged on some drunk mortal before coming to the party,_ Hannibal thought with distain.

“Thank you, Councilor Rike.” Hannibal politely replied, moving to put the gift down. He had no doubt the gift would be something painful—the man took great pride in his ignorance and poor taste, having started his career as a professional agitator in the Bonus Army of 1932. _Best open this later, away from prying eyes. It would not do to become fodder for the season’s rumor mill._

Seeing Hannibal start to place the box on the table behind him, Rike exclaimed, “No! No! You must open it!”

Hannibal suppressed a grimace. He hoped this wasn’t some ill-conceived prank. “Very well then.” He slowly removed the bright green iridescent sticky bow, and neatly started undoing the paper, taking time to carefully fold the paper after removing it. Underneath, was a small white box. Tentatively opening it, he remained expressionless, while cringing on the inside. Nestled inside amidst the snow white tissue paper, was a multi-color, bedazzled rhinestone paperweight in the shape of a cat. “Why…thank you.” Hannibal politely replied, unsure what else to say.

Rike nudged him roughly, “I saw it at Walmart the other day, and I thought, I’ve got this fancy party to go to, and we all know how much you Delacroix like the arts.”

A tight smile crossed Hannibal’s face as he envisioned the crunch of snapping Rike’s neck. That was one of the infuriating things about Rike and his ilk. It was difficult to differentiate their ignorance from malice. Not that ignorance was excusable, of course, but in extremis the ignorant could simply be ignored, while ignoring acts of malice for any reason was dangerous amongst brethren. Others might perceive weakness.

_Still, at least with Councilor Rike I needn’t worry about inopportune tantrums or tedious lectures on some obscure political philosophy._

A few more polite words were exchanged, and Rike swaggered off, making a beeline to refill his wineglass. Suppressing the urge to shake his head, Hannibal picked up his wineglass and box, swiftly moving to hide the box behind the gingerbread Nativity scene.

Hearing a commotion from the hallway, he exited the parlor. He turned to look down the hallway just in time to see Seth leaning out of the open bathroom door, berating Neophyte Issac Cosser, who stood over a pile of blood and half masticated food. His colleague Practicus Cyril Godfrey held his head in one hand.

“…learn some self-control.” Seth finished sneering, and returned to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Practicus Godfrey saw Hannibal approaching, and immediately started apologizing. “On behalf of the Order, I am so sorry—“

Hannibal cut him off before he launched into full on groveling. Holding up a hand, he said, “It’s not the first time, and will not be the last.” _Adolescents and alcohol, somethings never change._ _For some Brethren, its been so long since they last had food or alcohol, they don’t know their tolerances._

“I can ritually clean it.” Godfrey started. “You understand, we can’t leave any trace of blood behind.”

Hannibal shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to perform a ritual in my home, but I do have a rather large supply of caustic cleaners.”

***

Hannibal returned a few minutes later with a large bucket, heavy duty gloves, and containers of bleach and lye. He handed them to the two mages, the younger of which looked like he was going to throw up again due to sheer embarrassment.

Godfrey thanked him. “Of course, if you ever require assistance from me, and my order…”

Hannibal nodded, sagely. _Resurfacing the floor is a small price to pay for a personal favor from the Order._

His thoughts were cut short by Mason’s uncouth existence. “And I saw Searle and Castiglione coming out of the bathroom!” Mason made a loud sucking sound. “Searle must be desperate. Castiglione isn’t even that cute.”

Mrs. Komeda saved Hannibal from having to acknowledge Mason. “I see Captain Fleischer left.” She tutted away, before casting a disapproving glance at the two mages scrubbing the floor behind them.

“He’s obviously a very busy man.” Hannibal replied.

“So rude. This is a wonderful opportunity.”

“I am sure something important came up. He has served the Governor-General for over 100 years.” Hannibal added, leaving the rest unsaid. _To speak ill of Fleischer is to speak ill of the Governor-General._

Komeda pressed her lips together tightly, looking like she just swallowed a lemon. They turned, hearing Mason’s loud voice say something in garbled Latin. Mason was speaking to Seth. “Fucking Morris said that to me.”

Seth’s horrified expression morphed into one of almost incongruous pity. “Dude, if someone said that to me, I wouldn’t let them walk out of the room alive. I can’t believe you let that go.” Seth sneered. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing. If you are, I can hook you up—“

“Oh fuck you!” Mason shouted, stomping off.

Seth looked altogether far too pleased with himself, but upon noticing Hannibal was watching, his smirk turned into a frown. Seth stormed up to him. “How the hell did you get the Ambrosia?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal watched as Mason stormed up to Kakos. After a long moment, Kakos put his arm around Mason’s shoulder, and steered him for the front door. Turning back to Seth, and noticing Komeda’s hasty retreat, Hannibal suppressed an amused smile. With a guileless expression, Hannibal replied, “And a good evening to you as well, Mr. Searle. How are you finding the holiday season?”

Searle scoffed. “Oh fuck the season. The Ambrosia, where did you get it?”

 _Oh Seth, I see you still retain your usual sense of tact and grace._ “You must remember Marguerite La Fontaine?”

Seth bristled at the mention of Baltimore’s previous leader of the Heirs of Prometheus. Marguerite had ruled with a firm hand, keeping ragamuffins like Seth in check, ensuing the Heirs of Prometheus maintained _some_ modicum of respectability. Unfortunately, a tragic misunderstanding with the Order of the Golden Dawn, forced Marguerite to leave the city in haste. Oh, she had resettled in Pittsburgh, and by all accounts reestablished her successful ‘shipping’ empire, but the local Prometheans had never recovered.

“I’m sure Adeptus Eberhartner would _love_ to hear about that.” Seth sneered.

“I wasn’t aware the Order was in the habit of speaking with Prometheans.” Hannibal replied in a level tone. “Last I heard, they had standing orders to incinerate any Promethean that appeared within two blocks of their Sanctuary.” _I suppose it would be impolitic to admit continued contact with her._ “But feel free. She gave them to me long before she left. It was the fall of ’88. Cost me dearly. An original Monet, and two cases of the finest blood. Brethren of course. Bottled in the 1850’s…” Hannibal could go on, he rarely completely spun tales, preferring to stay rooted in the truth. However, there was something deeply satisfying in watching someone like Seth twist themselves into a fury over the silliest things.

Hannibal was interrupted from his tale by the sound of clinking chainmail. Looking up, Hannibal saw a Fleischer, without his Santa hat, standing stiffly. “Mr. Verger convey’s his apologies for your statuary. He _will_ be providing a replacement. If that does not come promptly. Contact me. Now, I must find Councilor Marivaux. He will need to increase his security.”

***

The last of the guests having left, Hannibal started to tidy the parlor. While it was always an expensive affair, as Brethren blood was not cheap, and Marguerite always did charge him for his annual shipment of Ambrosia, it seemed the evening had more than paid off. Although what Mason had done to his statuary was distressing, a favor from the Verger clan would no doubt prove useful in the future. But that paled in comparison to the favor from the Order. In addition, some guests left small trinkets of appreciation, no doubt angling to be remembered for his next party.

As Hannibal collected silver platters and lone hors d’oeuvres, he heard the tinkling sound of a woman’s laugh coming from down the hall. Frowning, he placed the platters down, and went to investigate.

“You met Dr. Lecter _before_ he began his psychiatric studies?” A young man’s voice asked from inside the library.

Now, Hannibal could clearly hear Bedelia. “Oh yes, it was such a new field. We studied together, with the likes of Jung and Freud.”

“So, _how_ did you meet Dr. Lecter?”

 _That laugh._ Hannibal gritted his teeth as he heard her continue. “It was the summer of 1904, along the Côte d'Azur. We met at the Opéra de Nice. Imagine my surprise, when in during an intermission of Tosca, I met another of our kind.”

Reaching the library’s open doorway, Hannibal watched Bedelia animatedly chat with Anthony Dimmond. Dimmond looked intently curious, carefully taking note of every word. Hannibal did not like the way Dimmond leaned forward, closer to Bedelia. “And he’s so much _younger_ than you,” Dimmond said in a conspiratorial tone. “ _Scandalous_.”

Bedelia jovially brushed Dimmond off with a wave of her hand. “Oh, 100 years is nothing to us.”

“But he was still so fresh when you met—Oh!” Dimmond exclaimed, turning to see Hannibal looming in the doorway. “Bedelia was just telling me the most _fascinating_ stories.”

Hannibal remained silent.

Dimmond rose from his chair, and threw a glance at the large grandfather clock near the door. “Though, I just saw the time. It’s getting early, I should bid my _adieu.”_

Hannibal loomed, silently watching.

“We really should meet up later this week.” Dimmond flashed a large, predatory smile, his white teeth glinting in the low light. “So many _interesting_ things to discuss. So many _interesting_ discoveries.”

Coldly, Hannibal watched as Dimmond passed him, starting for the front door. Hannibal ignored Bedelia’s alarmed look. Turning, he slowly started to approach Dimmond from behind, and began to transform…

***

“Must you, Hannibal!” Bedelia shouted down the stairs at him. In the basement, on a cold metal surgery table, lay the unconscious body of Anthony Dimmond. His clothing was ripped, his face and neck covered in deep, jagged bites, blistered and scarred from venom. A series of tubes slowly drained Dimmond’s blood into a series of containers on the floor.

Bedelia climbed down the stairs. “I was _finally_ having a conversation with someone other than _you_ , and _this_ is how you respond?!”

Hannibal didn’t reply as he impassively watched the last of the blood trickle out. Dimmond’s corpse had taken on an emaciated, dry, wrinkled quality.

“He was perfectly charming! There was—“

Hannibal’s eyes snapped up, gleaming dangerously. “Until _you_ can be trusted not to share our secrets with every pretty face that passes by, you will remain _here._ ” With a sneer, he added, “You are welcome to drink to your hearts content. I trust this is enough?” He gestured around the room at the several floor to ceiling racks of wine and other liquors.

She stood there silently, surprised at the harshness of his words.

Hannibal reached for several unlabeled wine bottles, and started transferring Dimmond’s blood. “Now, I have quite a bit of work.” He coldly stated. “As you cared so much about Mr. Dimmond, you wouldn’t want him to go to waste?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! You're comments all mean a lot, I hope you enjoyed the silly christmas special. If you have any questions about the series, or just want to say hi, feel free to drop me a line at CostumesofHannibal on tumblr.
> 
> Also, rough translation of the first line of Catullus 16, which Marivaux said to Mason, "I will sodomize you and face-fuck you," who said the classics were boring? :P And yes, Mason was going around the party repeating that to people trying to get someone to translate it.


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